Ready at Your Hand
by dettiot
Summary: In the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, a Catholic plot against the queen comes to the attention of spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham. To protect Elizabeth, he develops an unusual plan: hide the passing of intelligence between two agents by a false romance. When Lady Sarah Walker and Chuck Carmichael meet, though, their pretend flirtation becomes much more.
1. Prologue

**Ready ****at ****Your ****Hand****, ****Prologue**** (1/10)**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: In the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, a Catholic plot against the queen comes to the attention of spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham. To protect Elizabeth, he develops an unusual plan: hide the passing of intelligence between two agents by a false romance. When Lady Sarah Walker and Chuck Carmichael meet, though, their pretend flirtation becomes much more.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author****'****s ****Note**: And now for something very different: a historical AU set in the middle of Tudor England. I have a background in history, so when I received a prompt at my Tumblr about Chuck and Sarah in the middle of a royal court, I immediately got inspired. This prologue features a good bit of history and might feel a bit exposition-heavy, but I thought it was necessary to set the stage. If you like history, when I post each chapter I will give a run-down on the historical background on my Tumblr.

Thank you to kastropi on Tumblr for the original prompt.

This story would be pretty awful if it wasn't for the brilliant /victorianoir. She was my first reader and provided lots of feedback, as well as hilarious commentary on each chapter.

I truly hope you enjoy this different take on Chuck and Sarah! Thank you for reading.

XXX

_I __have __been __ready __at __your __hand__,_

_To __grant __what ever __you __would __crave__,_

_I __have __both __wagered __life __and __land__,_

_Your __love __and __good__-__will __for __to __have__._

Greensleeves

XXX

On this June day in the year of Our Lord 1583, the small office within the Palace of Placentia at Greenwich was stuffy and dim. The windows were barred shut against the fresh, pleasant air of an English spring and heavy drapes blocked the sunlight. The work done in this office could not be exposed to prying eyes or eavesdropping ears; the clerk who sat just inside the office, sorting documents, had already shed his doublet due to the heat and his linen undershirt was splotched with sweat.

Yet after a near full decade of work as Queen Elizabeth's principal secretary, Sir Francis Walsingham had grown used to the conditions. His black clothing was perfectly in place, his ruff drooping slightly in the warm air. He methodically reviewed the latest reports from his intelligencers, sent from the corners of Catholic Europe as well as every part of England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales. The reports detailed an array of rumors, conversations and actions, creating as a whole a sprawling, disharmonious portrait. And the image at the center was still unclear.

What was certain, Walsingham knew, was that the Pope and the Catholic kings of Spain and France were ever-ready to invade England, topple Elizabeth from the throne, and install a Catholic puppet who would restore the land to the blasphemies of popery.

Of course, that had been the goal of those men since the accession of Elizabeth twenty-five years before. When the Queen of Scots had been grudgingly allowed into England in 1567, leaving her throne to her infant son, a ready-made focus for Catholic hopes was created. In the subsequent decade and a half, the Scottish Queen-capable of charming any man into supporting her cause-had been the center of plots and intrigues, both foreign and domestic.

Walsingham set down his papers and sighed, stroking his stomach. By now he should have grown inured to the constant reports of yet another attempt to invade England, assassinate the Queen and install the former Queen of Scots as the country's new queen. Yet this latest plot, as detailed in these reports from his friend in the North, posed the greatest challenge to England since the Duke of Norfolk's treachery ten years before.

The need to be ever-watchful and ever-alert was grinding him down. He could sense that his old stomach complaint was preparing to reassert itself, promising another round of misery. That would mean a withdrawal from court to his country estate, leaving the Queen without his guidance. He was not so foolish to think the Queen could not function without him; if that could be said of anyone, Lord Burghley was that man. Yet he did not wish to leave Elizabeth Tudor unprotected.

With that thought in mind, Walsingham nodded to his clerk, who silently stood and withdrew from the office. Walsingham waited until the man's footsteps had receded, then drew out a key that opened the door to the inner office, where resided the secret cabinet which held the most important and closest-guarded secrets of the realm.

He had an idea on how he might guard the queen in the event of his absence, while at the same time facilitating communication from the newest weapon in the fight against Catholic intervention in England. The Earl of Lincoln's household had fallen under suspicion, and while his northern correspondent had taken steps to gather intelligence, more needed to be done to protect Queen and country. Especially since his correspondent had felt too much attention being paid to him, requiring an alternate arrangement be made to allow Sir Francis to keep the Earl under surveillance.

It was critical to stop those who sought the removal of Queen Elizabeth and the restoration of Catholicism to England, regardless of their status. And to do that, he needed intelligence. For as he prayed to God every night, England would remain Protestant as long as he kept his wits about him.

Opening the cabinet, Walsingham withdrew a small notebook and flipped through it. He ran his eyes over the ciphered lists, then nodded. It was as he thought: the Lady Sarah Walker would serve his purpose admirably.

The notebook was returned and the cabinet was locked. Walsingham sat at his desk and leaned forward, writing a message to the Lady Sarah that inquired about her health, commented on the fine weather, and invited her to visit him after the midday meal the following day.

It all seemed perfectly innocuous. Which was the point, of course. The invitation would be seen as a young woman meeting with her guardian, perhaps to discuss her future or family matters. But in truth, it was finally time to inform Lady Sarah of the role he wanted her to play.

To outside observers, Lady Sarah Walker was little different from the other maids of honour in the Queen's household. It was true that she was but a passable musician, a quality the music-loving Queen rarely accepted in her maids. Yet Lady Sarah had both obvious and unnoticed skills, and after four years of service had become well-known to all members of the Court.

Long ago, Sir Francis had seen how servants were overlooked and ignored by their masters. The great and powerful, used to the invisibility of their maids and valets and the rest of the staff, had little conception that those same servants were listening to every conversation. Watching a suspected traitor by inserting a spy into their household had proven fruitful again and again. That was what Larkin had done with the Earl of Lincoln: recommended an old schoolmate as secretary to the Earl, a man that Larkin could gather information from without arousing interest from the Earl or his cronies.

Rarely was such a spy a female, however. Walsingham had few female intelligencers in his network and none which could match his best male contacts. None, except for the Lady Sarah Walker.

And it was little wonder, for he had spent over ten years learning the best way to make a spy by practicing those lessons on Lady Sarah Walker.

XXX

"Enough!"

The voice of Elizabeth, Queen of England and Ireland, Supreme Governor of the Church of England, and undisputedly the most powerful woman in Europe, rang out. It made men and women of all ranks tremble, yet Lady Sarah Walker had been prepared for her sovereign's interjection.

"I apologize for my poor performance, Your Majesty," Sarah said, rising to her feet and curtsying to the Queen before handing the lute she had been playing to another lady in waiting.

"Have you been practicing, Lady Sarah?" The queen's sharp blue eyes narrowed.

"I have, Your Majesty," Sarah replied promptly. "Yet I find I do not improve. A fact for which I am grateful for, as I would never wish to outstrip your talents, ma'am."

Elizabeth let out an unroyal but emphatic snort. "Your charm almost makes up for your clumsy fingers. But you are forgiven, Lady Sarah. Now, Lady Russell, play for us."

Lady Russell, the Countess of Warwick, nodded her head and began to play. Meanwhile, Sarah took a seat and picked up the blackwork embroidery she had abandoned when the Queen had commanded her to play.

Carefully performing the small stitches required for her sewing project, Sarah let her mind turn over the letter she had received last night from Sir Francis. It was unusual to receive communication from him, and even more unusual that he requested to see her. Yet it gave her hope. Hope that perhaps he was finally trusting her with an assignment worthy of her.

To those at court, Lady Sarah Walker was a maid of honour, charged with waiting upon the Queen and providing company and entertainment to the monarch. Sarah knew what most people thought of her: she was considered quite lovely and generally held in high regard. Her lack of musicality notwithstanding, Sarah was known for her skill at embroidery, a ready wit, and excellent dancing skills. It went unsaid among most people, though, that as the orphan daughter of a knight from Derbyshire, her prospects were limited. She had no land and little fortune. Now nineteen years old, Sarah knew that she was destined for a life of service.

Of course, she could always get married. But she had no interest in marriage; she had graciously refused those few offers she had received, demurring that the Queen would not like to lose her. And any suitors who had attempted to sound out the Queen on this issue had their ears pinned back by the monarch. This fit in with Sarah's plans perfectly-no husband would permit his wife to do what she wished to do.

Yes, Sarah envisioned a life of service, but not as a lady-in-waiting. She wanted to be a spy, like the men Sir Francis managed and coordinated. Yet her _de __facto_ guardian had been reluctant-nay, downright refused-to use her in that role, even when the scraps of knowledge she had reported to him over the last year had proven to be accurate and helpful.

She didn't understand his rebuffing of her services, when he had clearly planned for her to take her place as a spy. From the day she had first met him, he had instructed her in the wisdom of his motto: _video __et __taceo_, see and stay silent.

The soft plunks of needle hitting canvas were the only sign of her anger as Sarah considered her history, searching again for a clue to understand his character. She had known Sir Francis for over ten years now. They had met in Paris when she was barely eight years old and he was the Ambassador to France.

Paris in the late summer of 1572 should have been buzzing with excitement over the wedding of Henri of Navarre, the heir to the French throne, to Margaret of Valois, the sister of the current king. Yet there was no excitement for the marriage, because Henri of Navarre was a Protestant and his bride-to-be, like most of France, was Catholic. The religious tensions between Protestant and Catholic finally exploded a few days after the wedding, leading to the slaughter of thousands of Protestants. Including Sarah's parents.

Sarah swallowed. The loss of her parents had dimmed over the years; she had been so young and their murder happened so long ago. Yet that didn't change the hole they had left in her life, didn't change how their loss had altered her status. Before the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre, she had been a young heiress with a bright future. Afterwards, it was all gone.

From what she could remember and what Sir Francis had discovered afterwards, Sarah's mother, had been Scottish, part of the large retinue sent to France with Mary, Queen of Scots upon her betrothal to the French king's heir. As a devout Protestant, her mother had felt isolated amid the French Catholics. She left service after meeting and marrying Sarah's father, a young yet promising Englishman who worked in Paris as a merchant's representative.

In the summer of 1572, the small family had been looking forward to the next year, when they would all return to England and enjoy the riches that her father had acquired through the years. Yet as the angry mobs swept through Paris, slaughtering Protestants en masse, Sarah's father had left their home on the edge of the city to guard his office, never to return.

Those days were still a blur to Sarah, a hazy fog of hunger and sleeplessness and fear. She could remember sneaking through the streets at night, with her mother and their maid Marie, searching for refuge. There had been quick, quiet whispers between the two women while Sarah thought about her empty belly. And then one night, Sarah went to sleep curled up between her mother and Marie in an abandoned pigsty, but woke up the next morning with only Marie.

Had her mother left in the middle of the night to relieve herself and been killed? Did she sacrifice herself to save Sarah? Or had she taken an opportunity to leave her child behind and start a new life? Sarah didn't know and Sir Francis had never revealed whether he knew more about her mother's fate.

Marie, a young Catholic girl, could not hide Sarah. So the maid had taken Sarah to the home of the English Ambassador, Sir Francis Walsingham. "He can find your family and keep you safe, my little one," Marie explained to Sarah in soft, rapid French.

Parting from Marie had prompted more tears than losing her parents. Marie was the last link with her home, with her happy memories, with her parents. But all too soon, Marie left and Sir Francis took control of her life.

Without any family in England or Scotland to take Sarah, Sir Francis had agreed with his wife to allow Sarah to serve as a companion to their daughter Frances. And thus began the next chapter in Sarah's life.

Her past was concealed by Sir Francis; she was introduced as a distant relation of Lady Walsingham's, the orphan daughter of a knight. Brought up as a proper English girl along with Frances Walsingham, Sarah was instructed in reading, writing, languages and some basic mathematics, plus the usual lessons in dancing, music and archery. And then there were special lessons, taught by tutors hired by Sir Francis. Men who taught her how to handle knives, women who showed her to disguise herself with cosmetics and clothing.

Sarah frowned at her needlework. By the time she was fourteen, she had realized that this special instruction would be ideal for someone being trained as a spy. Yet Sir Francis never told her why he arranged the extra lessons, and after six years in his household, she had learned the benefits of staying quiet and keeping her thoughts to herself. When Sir Francis had informed her at the age of fifteen that she was to serve as a maid of honour to the Queen, she had hoped he would explain himself. Yet no explanation came. After four years, she was tired of waiting.

Perhaps it was time to confront Sir Francis. To insist on an answer to the question of what he intended for her. Today's meeting would be an ideal opportunity.

The chiming of the audience chamber's clock drew Sarah's attention. It was time for her to leave for her meeting. Rising, she waited for a break in the music and then curtsied deeply to the Queen. "May I have your permission to withdraw, Your Majesty?"

Elizabeth nodded and waved her hand in the air, and Sarah rose and backed away from the monarch. Once out of the chamber, Sarah walked quickly towards the room she shared with another maid. She had just enough time to change her ruff before meeting Sir Francis.

XXX

For Mr. Charles Carmichael, this day had been nothing but nerve-wracking. He shuffled his pen case and notebooks as he walked through the halls of Greenwich Palace, feeling like a child just starting grammar school. Actually, he found himself wishing he was back at Cambridge, studying with other scholars and seeing his sister and his best friend during holidays. But he was now nearly nineteen, done with his formal schooling and starting to make his way in the world.

It had been thanks to a fellow Cambridge scholar, Sir Bryce Larkin, that he was now employed. Sir Bryce had recommended him for a position in the household of the Earl of Lincoln, the Lord High Admiral and a gruff, taciturn man. After three weeks in the Earl's service, Chuck still didn't know exactly why the Earl needed another secretary. Between the Earl's private secretary and Mr. Milbarge, the chief clerk, there was barely any work. Chuck found himself copying letters in order to stay busy. But Bryce had assured Chuck that the Earl needed assistance during their evening conversations at the local public house. He felt a bit guilty over doing little work for a generous salary, but his sister Eleanor had counseled him to be patient when he had visited her last Sunday.

"You've just begun, Chuck," she said, using the nickname she had given him as a child. Eleanor handed him a cup of tea before taking a seat across from him at the kitchen table in her small cottage. "Perhaps the Earl simply needs time to become used to having a stranger working for him."

"That's true," he had said, sipping some tea. "And at least I can help you now."

Eleanor had smiled brightly at him. "Your help is wonderful but unnecessary. Soon Devon will be finished with his training and then we'll be married."

Chuck had returned his sister's smile and done his best to enjoy the rest of his visit before returning to within the city's walls. Yet he still felt confused about what was expected from him. His feelings of uncertainty had increased after the letter he found at his lodgings, left there by Bryce.

It had been more of a quick note, informing Chuck that he had to leave for Paris immediately. "Visit the Crown and Thistle the day after tomorrow as usual, and a friend of mine will meet you there," Bryce had instructed him.

Part of him wondered at the odd request, fearing into what Bryce had gotten him. At Cambridge, Bryce had convinced Chuck into youthful hijinks a few too many times for his comfort. But that was back when they were barely out of childhood. They were both now grown men. Bryce wouldn't let him come to any harm. So Chuck, convincing himself that he was feeling unnecessarily worried, had gone to the public house.

To his surprise, it had been Sir Francis Walsingham waiting to speak with him. Sir Francis, the Queen's secretary, one of the most important men in England! Over a dinner of mutton, rye bread and ale, Sir Francis had informed Chuck of the truth of the situation.

"Your employer has become surrounded by traitors," Sir Francis had said in a soft, guarded voice. "Your friend, Sir Bryce, knew this and wished to prevent these traitors from attacking the Queen or damaging her realm. However, he is no longer available to meet with you and gather your observations."

"That-that was why he recommended me for the position?" Chuck asked, staring at the elderly man in front of him.

Sir Francis nodded. "Yes. Normally, he would send your answers to me. You cannot report directly to me; it would be too dangerous for you to be seen in my company that frequently. Therefore, I have arrived at a solution."

Chuck looked at Sir Francis, feeling nervous and fearful. All he wanted was a position that would support himself and help Eleanor. Something that would allow him to maybe one day marry and start his own family. Not that there was any woman who would look twice at him, but he couldn't help hoping for that kind of future. Safe, simple and quiet: that was all he wanted from his life.

But . . . but if the Earl had become entangled with people who wished ill of the Queen, didn't Chuck have a duty to protect his employer? Plus, he was a loyal subject of Queen Elizabeth. If he helped Sir Francis, he might be able to play a small part in keeping the Queen safe.

Wrapping his hands around his mug of ale, Chuck debated what he should do. He knew what his sister would tell him to do; Eleanor had always thought more of him than he did of himself. She would say that he was a good man and he shouldn't be afraid of doing what was right.

As always, his sister was wiser than he was.

So Chuck looked at Sir Francis and nodded. "What do you want me to do?"

The older man had a small smile on his face. "Simply watch the Earl. Learn who visits him, who corresponds with him. Listen to the conversations he holds with other men when he doesn't notice you are in the room. Every few days, you will compile what you know into a report which you will give to my intermediary."

"Who?" Chuck asked curiously.

"Would you be able to visit Greenwich tomorrow afternoon?" the spymaster asked, confusing Chuck.

"I believe so . . . the Earl hasn't informed me of any need of my services tomorrow," Chuck said slowly.

"Good," Sir Francis said. "Come to my office at the palace, then, at three in the afternoon. You'll learn more then."

Chuck took a long swallow of his ale. "Very well, sir."

In the intervening hours, Chuck had reconsidered his decision a thousand times. It was one thing for Bryce to play at this game of spies and traitors; as a nobleman, he had his family name and riches to protect him. But Chuck was nothing more than a smart boy who had received a scholarship to Cambridge, helping him to rise above his humble origins. If he failed in this, the best he could hope for was escaping without utter ruin. At worst, prison or death awaited him.

But somehow, he found an unknown reservoir of courage within him. He thought of what his sister would want him to do and what his childhood friend Morgan thought of him. Chuck knew that they both thought he was a good man. And he wanted to live up to their opinion of him. Considering that he might be able to help protect Queen Elizabeth, Chuck knew that he should do his part.

So here he was, following the directions to Sir Francis's office that he had received from a guard. Once he reached the office and stood before the closed door, Chuck took a few breaths, trying to gather himself. He smoothed his dark red doublet, then tugged a little on his linen cuffs, adjusting them. After tucking his notebooks and pen case under his arm, he lightly tapped on the door.

"Enter!" came the voice of Sir Francis.

Ignoring his nerves as best he could, Chuck stepped inside and squinted, trying to see in the dimly-lit room. Sir Francis was standing just inside the door, greeting him quietly before leading him deeper into the room. As his eyes adjusted, they widened when he realized he was not alone with Sir Francis. And the third occupant of the office was not at all who he expected.

End, Prologue


	2. Chapter 1

**Ready ****at ****Your ****Hand****, ****Chapter**** 1 (2/10)**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: In the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, a Catholic plot against the queen comes to the attention of spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham. To protect Elizabeth, he develops an unusual plan: hide the passing of intelligence between two agents by a false romance. When Lady Sarah Walker and Chuck Carmichael meet, though, their pretend flirtation becomes much more.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author****'****s ****Note**: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the prologue of this fic! As you can see, this chapter-and the following ones-are much longer than the prologue. Hope you enjoy, and if you want to learn more about the history behind the story, visit my Tumblr.

XXX

"It may be said that I fear too much. Surely considering the state we stand in, I think it less danger to fear too much than too little."

Sir Francis Walsingham

XXX

It was a difficult task to move through the halls of a royal palace without attracting notice, due to the vast number of individuals that made up the Queen's household. Chambers were full of servants and nobles; the halls were lined by guards and thronged with clerks. Yet Lady Sarah Walker had long ago learned how to move quietly through rooms filled with people, with barely a glance thrown in her direction.

Both because of her position within the Queen's court and due to today's appointment, Sarah had dressed simply, forgoing jewelry or bright colors. Her high-necked gown, dyed a dark blue and trimmed with her own blackwork embroidery, was neither flashy nor noticeable. The long skirts brushed softly against the sweet-smelling rushes spread over the floors as she made her way to Sir Francis's office.

As she approached his office, Sarah once again cautioned herself from hoping for the moon. It was quite likely Sir Francis had a simple, ordinary reason to speak with her. She had yet to state outright that she wished to be a spy; it had seemed wiser to position herself as able and willing until he was ready to consider her. But perhaps she needed to be more emphatic in stating her desire. It was possible he was feeling too concerned about subjecting her to the dangers of being an intelligencer. But Sarah considered herself prepared for such work. She might not have a family name or fortune to protect her, but she had plenty of other assets.

When she thought about those skills, she couldn't help remembering her first meeting with Sir Francis. It had been after Marie left her at the English Ambassador's house. She had been crying, curled up on the rug and alone in a small room . But once Sir Francis had entered the room, she quickly rubbed away her tears and stood up. Somehow, she knew that she had to stop crying and be sensible. That was what her parents had always praised in her: her practical mind and steady nature. She couldn't shame Mama and Papa by crying like a baby.

Then forty years of age, Sir Francis Walsingham, the English Ambassador to France, was firmly in middle age. To Sarah, he seemed thin, foreboding and grim, like a raven. But his voice was kind when he spoke to her. "Good. You must put away your tears for a while, child. Soon, I will send you to England with some good people and then I will help you find your family."

Over the last ten years, Sarah had seen that her initial impression of Sir Francis was both accurate and misleading. He was deeply religious, a family man, fond of wordplay and funny stories. Yet when he was fulfilling his duties as the Queen's secretary, he never wavered from his duty, never allowed a distraction to interfere with his work. If the Queen had more men like Sir Francis and William Cecil, Baron Burghley, Sarah thought there would be little chance of any of the various Catholic plots to gain any ground.

Perhaps that was why Sir Francis had requested a visit from her: there was some sort of plot that he needed her help to stop! Sarah felt the thrill of opportunity for a moment, but then ruthlessly forced her emotions into a calmer state. If she was going to get her guardian's permission to act as a intelligencer, she needed to show she could handle her emotions. Being willful and dramatic worked for the Queen, because she was royalty. But for Lady Sarah Walker, a composed face, combined with a calm heart and mind, was the best approach.

She lightly tapped on the outer door to Sir Francis's office and a young man, probably his clerk, opened the door. Before Sarah had a chance to give him her name, Sir Francis's voice rang out. "John, why don't you take your meal now. I'll attend to Lady Sarah."

The clerk nodded and stepped out of the room, allowing Sarah to enter. The office, paneled in dark wood, was dimly lit by flickering candles. Unlike most of the palace, the windows in this room were covered in heavy black drapes, blocking sunlight and fresh air. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust enough to see further details, like the shelves filled with books and parchment rolls, the remaining wall space covered with maps.

Sir Francis nodded to her from his seat at a round table, sitting next to a door that Sarah knew led into his private cabinet. The table's surface was covered in papers, pens and quills, with a bottle and two goblets in the center. "Good day, Lady Sarah."

As was proper, she gave a quick curtsy. "Good day, Sir Francis."

"Sit down," he said in reply, gesturing towards the chair across from his.

Sarah sat down, carefully spreading her skirts to minimize any wrinkles, then folded her hands in her lap, sitting straight and erect. Sir Francis poured some wine into the goblets and rose enough to place one of the goblets in front of her. "I trust no objection was made to your visit here today?"

"The Queen is with her dressmakers this afternoon," Sarah answered before taking a small sip of wine. "Lady Parry had no quibble with my absence from that activity."

Sir Francis made a small, noncommittal noise as he drank some wine, then he winced slightly. Sarah frowned. "Sir Francis? Is it the stomach complaint again?"

He nodded. "Aye, the pains are returning. I hope to not require a withdrawal from court, but it is a possibility."

"Should you be drinking wine? Perhaps some ale would be more soothing to your stomach . . ." Sarah said, fully prepared to fetch whatever Sir Francis might need.

"You are as bad as Lady Walsingham," Sir Francis said with a small, tight smile. "Please, remain seated. We have much to discuss, Sarah."

His words sent that same thrill through her, but she did her best to keep her expression the same. "Yes, Sir Francis."

"Up until this time, you have received training that is not typical for a young lady, Sarah. I have been loathe for you to make use of these skills," Sir Francis began, his hands resting on top of the papers that were piled in neat stacks. "I know this has been something that is difficult for you to understand."

"I wouldn't want to appear to second-guess your judgement, sir, by questioning your decisions. Yet I admit I am confused, since my education has not been justified by my current lifestyle," Sarah said, looking at Sir Francis.

Her guardian tutted softly. "You put William Cecil to shame with your political abilities, Sarah."

Her lips quirked up in a smile, but Sarah remained silent. She knew that Sir Francis thought that Baron Burghley was too much of a politician now, yet as he was the most important person in the land after the Queen, it was also a compliment.

"It is true, the lessons you received as a girl were unusual preparation for a woman of your standing and character. However, the current situation being what it is, I find that I have use for you."

And there it was: her cherished wish was coming true. It was all Sarah could do not to jump up and hug Sir Francis, but she restricted herself to a soft smile. "Thank you, sir. I will endeavor to perform whatever I am assigned to do in a satisfactory manner."

"I have every confidence in your abilities, Sarah," he said quietly. The gentle praise made her cheeks flush and Sarah ducked her head. "Now, to begin: tell me if the household gossip is correct that you do not have any romantic entanglements at this time."

Sarah could feel her forehead wrinkle as she attempted to decipher the reason behind this line of questioning. "I . . . I'm not aware of any. That is, there aren't any young men at court that hold my interest."

"Good," Sir Francis said. "That removes my only concern." He took a quill and wrote a note on a piece of paper, leaving Sarah to look at him, feeling a bit speechless.

"And you still carry your dagger, correct?"

Rather than say anything, Sarah leaned forward and lifted her skirts to her ankles, revealing her dark blue shoes. Reaching under the heavy skirts, she removed the three-inch dagger that she kept strapped to her calf and produced it for Sir Francis.

"How quickly could you remove it and use it?" Sir Francis asked, his voice curious.

After a moment of consideration, Sarah said, "Perhaps ten or fifteen seconds. Although that is just a guess."

"Too slow," Sir Francis said, shaking his head. "Understandable, given the circumstances." He gestured towards her heavy skirts. He stood up slowly from his chair and went towards the inner door. "Wait a moment."

He vanished into the other room, leaving Sarah alone. With a slightly shaking hand, she picked up her goblet and took a few small sips of her wine, hoping to steady herself. She had heard the reluctance in Sir Francis's voice; he must be backed into a corner by his looming illness and a very serious situation if he would utilize her. So she couldn't let her emotions get away from her. Not when this opportunity was more of an audition than the first of many missions.

By the time she had replaced her goblet and mastered herself, Sir Francis had returned, carrying a most unusual looking blade. It was long, pointed, and incredibly slender; the blade's diameter was a fraction of her smallest finger.

"See if you can slide that up your sleeve, Sarah," he said, handing over the blade in its case.

It took a small amount of wiggling, but Sarah was able to slip the knife up her sleeve, its tip near the crook of her elbow and the handle at her wrist. Sir Francis stepped back and nodded. "That will suit. When your dresses permit, you will carry that as well. It will allow you extra speed when you might need it."

Sarah nodded and withdrew the dagger to examine it. "I've never seen anything so . . ."

"So deadly?" Sir Francis asked, taking his seat. "It's called a stiletto. Very popular in Italy for assassinations. Allows you to step close to your victim and strike, piercing through layers of fabric."

"Is that what you intend for me to do?" Sarah asked slowly, feeling her heart sink. She put the stiletto down on the table, feeling an urge to push her chair back and put room between herself and that knife. It was one thing to carry a small dagger, but quite something else to be handed a blade like this and told it was a murderer's tool.

Sir Francis started, looking shocked. "Not at all," he said tersely, leaning forward. "Not unless the situation warrants it. No, Sarah, I wish you to protect the Queen."

"The Queen?" Sarah repeated, her eyes widening.

"Allow me to explain," Sir Francis said. "First, you know very well that Queen Elizabeth is always at risk from murderous Catholics. Her guards are all commendable men, yet they are men. There are certain areas that are barred to them, unless an emergency has already occurred."

She listened closely, seeing the sense in his words. The queen's armed guards were stationed in her audience chamber and along the corridors, but her privy chamber, her bedroom, her wardrobe room-they were the province of women only.

"Recently, a new plot has begun developing. Its goals are twofold: to murder the queen and to replace her on the throne with Mary, Queen of Scots. That lady," Sir Francis said, showing his disdain for the former Scottish monarch by not referring to her by her title, "would return England to Catholicism and make this country into a puppet of Spain or France."

"Do you suspect the plotters of attempting to infiltrate the Queen's rooms?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "I suspect everything and nearly everyone. I have long desired to guarantee the queen's protection, even deep within the household quarters. And now I shall."

It was foolish of her to feel disappointed. To wish that she could have been sent to Paris or Italy, to desire a real assignment rather than continuing her work as a maid of honour. Thanks to her years in France, she could speak French fluently. Her Italian had been considered quite good by her schoolmaster, and she knew enough Scots to survive. True, with her blonde hair and blue eyes, she would stick out in Italy, but . . . but she could do more than this.

She knew that Sir Francis must be silently judging her, searching her face to determine her thoughts. But she needed some time to adjust her expectations. As much as she wished to be a real spy, it just didn't seem possible. Not even in England, where a queen ruled the land and women were treated very differently than they were in the rest of Europe. Just last week, Ambassador Mendoza from Spain had drawn her into another long conversation. As one of his normal subtle insults towards England, he had commented upon the freedom of English women, about how they were more vocal and more opinionated than their European counterparts.

If even in England she couldn't be seen as a spy, was there any chance for her? It seemed clear that her hopes had been foolishly high and now she was facing the tough descent to reality. She should be grateful to her guardian, for finally allowing her to play a part in defeating the Queen's enemies. To gain some practical knowledge of spycraft. To learn if being a spy was the right choice for her.

And if it was, she would be better prepared to be a spy on her own terms. There had to be options beyond serving Sir Francis, and perhaps it was time for her to explore them. If she could combine her education with real experience, she would be able to find opportunities that Sir Francis would never permit her to know about, much less consider.

It was an intoxicating prospect. But Sarah knew for the time being that she would have to hide this new dream, to treat it like a seed buried in the spring until it could sprout in the summer. So she looked at Sir Francis and nodded. "How would I be protecting the queen?"

"At first, simply by watching and observing the behavior of those who surround her," Sir Francis said, his eyes locked on hers. "If you see anything out of the ordinary, anything suspicious, compile it into a report and inform me. You must use your judgement and not jump at shadows. Or arouse undue suspicion."

Sarah nodded, then picked up her goblet and drank some wine. "How often should I contact you?"

"Certainly not more than once a week. You'll need to stagger the times and days when you pass your report to your contact, John Casey. Are you acquainted with Mr. Casey?"

"Yes, I am," she said, thinking about the thickly-built guard. He was a man of few words and many grunts, but his loyalty was unquestioned. "I usually see him every three days or so, based on his duty rotation, so I should be able to provide my information to him readily enough."

Sir Francis looked mildly impressed that she had noted such detail. "You will also be handing reports to Mr. Casey from another spy."

She felt a glimmer of hope. Acting as a courier as well? That was an unexpected but welcome responsibility. Sarah straightened her shoulders slightly. "Yes?"

"One of my contacts recently inserted an intelligencer into the household of the Earl of Lincoln. Do you know his lordship?"

"Slightly," Sarah said. "I am more familiar with his wife, the Countess."

"Ah, yes-the 'fair Geraldine' is part of the Queen's household, too," he remarked distractedly. "There are suspicions that the Earl is corresponding with Catholics, coordinating this plot against Queen Elizabeth."

"And this intelligencer is gathering proof of such a betrayal?" Sarah asked, feeling curious about the man tasked with such a delicate operation.

"Yes . . . he's untried, but I trust the agent who selected him. However, that agent is now unavailable, so I will need your assistance to prepare the young man. For his work in the Earl's household and in other ways as well."

Sarah tilted her head to one side. Sir Francis was being evasive and that was unusual for him. She didn't know why he was beating around the bush instead of being his normal direct self, but it set off even more alarms inside her head. Sir Francis must be feeling an abnormal amount of pressure if he was willing to work with a raw, untrained spy like the intelligencer inside the Earl of Lincoln's household.

"Perhaps you could explain-" Sarah's request for further explanation was interrupted by a timid-sounding knock on the outer door of the office. She paused and looked at Sir Francis. "Were you expecting someone else?"

"Yes-this is the new intelligencer." Sir Francis lifted his voice. "Enter!" He rose and walked across the office to the door. Although Sarah wanted to turn in her chair and crane her neck to get a glimpse of the unknown agent, she knew it wasn't proper to gawk. Instead, she stayed still, with her back to the door, but strained her ears to hear everything.

"Mr. Carmichael," Sir Francis said quietly as he opened the door. "Come in."

"Thank you," said the now-identified Mr. Carmichael. His voice was of a higher pitch than Sir Francis's, denoting a younger man. "I hope I'm not too early-I see you have company-"

He sounded nervous, Sarah thought. Nervous and a bit unsteady.

"You're not early, Mr. Carmichael. I asked you to arrive at this time so you might meet Lady Sarah Walker, as well as learn more about your assignment."

Sarah rose from her chair, turning slightly as Sir Francis walked towards the table. He was followed by an exceptionally tall man, one who looked about the same age as herself and thus proving correct her guess about being a younger man.

Sir Francis spoke pleasantly, attempting to put the other man at ease. "Sarah, may I introduce Mr. Charles Carmichael. This is Lady Sarah Walker, Mr. Carmichael."

"Mr. Carmichael," Sarah said, keeping her eyes slightly lowered but watching his body language as she dipped into a curtsy.

The man in front of her was certainly not what she had expected. He did not seem like he would blend into a crowd. His height, which she estimated at being well over six feet, would naturally attract curious eyes. She did admit the effect was striking, though. As she rose, she ran her eyes over him. His hair was dark and curly; he wore a neatly-trimmed beard that covered his chin and jaw but left his cheeks mostly clean-shaven, and he was thin and slightly gangly.

"Lady Sarah," he said, a catch in his voice further displaying his nervousness. He bowed and straightened up, then tugged on his faded red doublet.

"Please, take a seat, Mr. Carmichael," Sir Francis said, gesturing towards the third chair at the table. "May I offer you some wine?"

Sarah was able to watch him wrestle with his answer to Sir Francis's simple question. First he wrinkled his forehead, then he frowned before his face cleared. "Thank you, but I'm fine."

As she sat down, Sarah felt dismayed. How could this man keep a secret with such an expressive face? Anything he was thinking or feeling was obvious, put on display for anyone who paid the least bit of attention.

Perhaps she was being uncharitable. After all, she was also feeling a bit nervous about this assignment, and she had been well-prepared for this path. Since Sir Francis had called Mr. Carmichael "untried," it seemed likely that he had much less training than she. So she should be forgiving of his nerves.

Mr. Carmichael folded his body into a chair, then set down the notebooks and pen case he had been carrying under his arm. "May I take notes?" he asked Sir Francis. "Or is that not right?"

"Yes, but guard your notes. We cannot have them fall into the wrong hands," Sir Francis warned.

"Yes, sir," Mr. Carmichael said, fumbling slightly as he prepared to write. Sarah watched in amusement as he knocked one notebook to the floor, nearly banged his head against the edge of the table when he bent down to retrieve it, then flicked through the pens in his case before selecting one to use.

She looked at Sir Francis, who was also watching Mr. Carmichael with muted dismay in his eyes. And the sight of that wiped away her amusement. With the concerns about his recurring malady and this newest plot, Sir Francis must be worried about trusting this young man. She should do what she could to help Mr. Carmichael perform his duties, so that Sir Francis could focus on improving his health.

With that in mind, Sarah spoke quietly. "Sir Francis, why don't you explain what you would like us to do?"

"Yes, I will," Sir Francis said, pulling his chair a bit closer to the table. "Very well. Mr. Carmichael, you will watch the Earl's household, observing any unusual behavior or actions by anyone, noble or servant. Every few days, you will need to compile your observations and relay them to me through a chain of couriers. You will contact Lady Sarah when you have a report, since she is the first in that chain."

"What do you mean by 'unusual behavior or actions'?" Mr. Carmichael asked, his pen poised above his notebook.

"Letters that arrive from France or Spain, visitors with accents, late-night meetings between the Earl and other men. Any strangers that you see, or men you suspect of having high rank, provide a detailed description of their appearance and features. If you can make copies of any suspicious letters, so much the better," Sir Francis explained.

Sarah listened as attentively as Mr. Carmichael, who scratched away in his notebook. True, in her role she wouldn't necessarily need this information, but she found it interesting.

"You will use this code to write your reports," Sir Francis said, sliding a sheet of paper across the table to Mr. Carmichael. "The code is straightforward for your enciphering, but poses challenges for anyone attempting to break the code. What languages can you write in?"

"English, of course," Mr. Carmichael said. "Also Latin, Greek, French, and a little Scots."

Clearly, Mr. Carmichael had some university education. That didn't fit with his shabby, well-worn clothes, Sarah reflected, feeling a touch of curiosity. If some patron had sponsored his education, why wasn't he working for that patron now? A rich noble putting a young man through school would expect him to take a position in his own household, not let him go to work somewhere else. And how had he come to that other agent's attention-and what made that agent think that Mr. Carmichael was the right choice to work as a spy in the Earl of Lincoln's household?

"Choose a different language for each report. For particularly sensitive material, mix languages within the report," Sir Francis said. "Understood?"

Mr. Carmichael finished writing, then looked at Sir Francis. "Yes, sir. Although . . . might I ask a question?" Without waiting for his assent, Mr. Carmichael continued on. "You said I should give my reports to Lady Sarah, but you warned me about how we're all being watched, about the need for secrecy and invisibility. Won't this put Lady Sarah and myself in danger?"

Sir Francis steepled his hands in front of him. "That is the crux of the matter, yes. But there is a solution, one that is easy to accomplish and would automatically distract any such suspicions."

Sarah frowned at the continued mysterious approach that Sir Francis had adopted, then glanced at Mr. Carmichael, who seemed equally stupefied. "Which is, Sir Francis?" she asked, leaning forward slightly.

"It is a delicate situation, I realize, but if the court believed that you and Mr. Carmichael had a, a friendship . . ."

He let his voice trail off and a tense silence fell over the room.

Was Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen's spymaster and her guardian, suggesting that Sarah and Mr. Carmichael cover their spying with . . . with a romance? Sarah felt a shudder go through her. She certainly wasn't a blushing innocent; she had been kissed before. She had even kissed a few men of her own accord. But that didn't mean she was willing to be a strumpet for her country.

"Sir Francis, I-I don't understand," Mr. Carmichael said, his face pale. "What exactly are you saying?"

"He wants us to pretend to be lovers," Sarah said bluntly, her eyes locked on Sir Francis's face.

"That is one way of phrasing it," Sir Francis admitted. "I admit, it is much to ask of both of you. Yet it would serve our purposes very well and provide you with excellent protection. No one would question a young man and woman having intimate conversations and passing love notes to each other."

She leaned back in her chair, knowing that her face gave away what she was feeling. But at this moment, she was unable to control her expression. She felt insulted that the man she almost considered a father was willing to use her in this tawdry manner. Being a spy was something that would let her exceed her womanly limitations, but here was Sir Francis reducing her to that very role: just a woman and nothing else.

Mr. Carmichael seemed equally upset. Two red spots burned on his cheeks, as well as the tips of his ears. His shoulders were slightly hunched, as if he was trying to take up less space, make himself a smaller target for some reason. He was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Sir Francis, but-but that's just not fair to Lady Sarah."

Fair to her? Of all the objections she had imagined Mr. Carmichael offering-which were admittedly few, since he was a man and most men would relish the chance to romance a young lady without any strings attached-that wasn't one she had considered. She looked at him, her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"

He blinked at her. "I-I mean, you're very-you shouldn't have to risk your future by having your name linked with mine. I'm-I'm just a poor clerk. No one knows who I am, and for someone like you, a member of the Queen's household . . . won't it look strange?"

"Not at all," Sir Francis said. "Stranger matches have been formed at Court before. If anything, your relative obscurity will heighten the interest in this . . . partnership. Especially as Lady Sarah is not known for forming attachments to courtiers. And-" Sir Francis cleared his throat. "It's also known that Lady Sarah is not wealthy. An up-and-coming clerk would be seen as an appropriate match for someone of her station."

Grudgingly, Sarah weighed his words. He was correct: it wouldn't take long for everyone to be talking about Lady Sarah Walker beginning a romance with an unknown clerk, especially with the facts that Sir Francis had shared. The whole court would be so caught up in the gossip that no one would suspect anything. It was an ideal way to hide their true activities.

The logic of the idea was sinking in, yet that didn't mean she liked it. Especially since it would be more difficult to convince the court that the romance was real than Sir Francis seemed to realize. She glanced at Mr. Carmichael. He didn't seem like the men she met at court; he wasn't charming or witty or flirtatious. She was confident that she could play her part, but could he?

This false romance would require a bit of skill to achieve, but . . . but once it was put into play, she could show Sir Francis what she was capable of. It wasn't the way she wished to demonstrate her abilities, but this was the way that was open to her. Once she could speak with Carmichael alone, impress upon him how important this first assignment was, she could get him to cooperate. And then she could become a real spy.

"It could work," she said slowly.

Mr. Carmichael did a double-take. "You think so?"

Sarah raised then lowered her shoulders, trying to project a nonchalant attitude. "Yes. With some planning and coordination, I believe we could fool the Court." She looked at Sir Francis. "We'll need some time to ease into this. A few weeks, to lay the groundwork."

Sir Francis nodded. "It's unlikely Mr. Carmichael would have much to report at first, as he's still new to the Earl's household. That's acceptable."

"But-" Mr. Carmichael said, looking incredibly uncertain. "But is this the only way?"

For some reason, his hesitation made Sarah want to tease him. He was so incredibly earnest and sincere, and something about those qualities sparked an urge to fluster him. "Yes, unless you find me completely unattractive and you wouldn't be able to overcome that to romance me."

He gaped at her, then swallowed and shook his head, the flush returning to his face.

"Good," she said, rising from her seat and sliding the stiletto up the sleeve of her gown. Sir Francis and Mr. Carmichael both rose, and she nodded to each of them. "Mr. Carmichael, I often walk in the gardens in the morning before breakfast. If you met me there, we could plan our great romance. Tomorrow at seven?"

"Of-of course, Lady Sarah," he said, his voice low. He glanced at her for a moment then dropped his eyes to the floor.

He looked so much like a shamed puppy that Sarah wondered if he was doing it on purpose. She shook her head, pushing aside the hint of guilt she now felt. "Good day, gentlemen," she said, curtsying and then turning to leave the room.

As she moved through the halls, she acted like her normal self, even as her mind turned over this situation. She had wanted so desperately to become part of Sir Francis's spy network and now she was. Protecting the Queen and guarding her life was a worthy assignment. She was armed with a dangerous weapon, one that would let her fulfill her duty. And she would be an important cog in the machinery of defeating an evil plot.

The romance element still surprised her, yet it made more and more sense. It illustrated one of the most important rules of spying: blending in and presenting an image that people wouldn't question. It would be an intriguing challenge for her to meet as she worked to become a true intelligencer.

Sarah just hoped that Mr. Carmichael would be able to fulfill his side of their romance.

XXX

It would be impossible for one person to feel as overwhelmed and lost as he did now, Chuck thought as he took his seat after the departure of Lady Sarah Walker. He looked at Sir Francis and ran a hand through his hair. "I think I'd like that glass of wine now, sir."

Sir Francis chuckled softly. "Lady Sarah is rather disconcerting," he said as he poured some wine into a goblet. "Ever since I met her, I've thought she was a most unusual female."

Chuck took a larger-than-polite swallow of his wine. "When was that?"

"Eleven years ago, when she was a girl of eight. I took her under my care when she was orphaned."

So Lady Sarah was nearly the same age as him. Given the differences in their knowledge, though, Chuck felt much, much younger. He also sensed that there was many things that Sir Francis was leaving unsaid about his relationship to Lady Sarah. It was an intriguing riddle, but it paled in comparison to the other questions crowding his mind.

Could he actually be a spy? Could he avoid suspicion? And could he feign a romance with a lady who was beautiful, intelligent, and very dangerous?

Taking another sip of wine, he considered Lady Sarah. Anyone with eyes could see her beauty: it was refined and flawless, from her pale skin, sky-blue eyes and sunny blonde hair. From what he had seen, her figure was softly rounded and very feminine, highlighted by delicate wrists and beautiful hands. Also, she was taller than most women of his acquaintance, giving her an extra elegance.

A man would be blind not to be immediately attracted to Lady Sarah Walker-and even then such a man would be inspired by her soft voice and quick mind. She was intelligent and poised and unlike anyone he had ever met.

In short, if he had met her in a normal way, Chuck could see himself pining away for Lady Sarah within moments of their meeting. But pretending to be in love with her . . . he was no actor. Bryce had been the one to carry the day in their college's amateur theatricals, while Chuck had been in the background-or backstage.

He felt awkward and tongue-tied around her now. How would he react when he had to touch her hand, stand close to her, kiss her?

Such thoughts were the last ones he should be having while in the same room as Sir Francis. Doing his best to act normally, Chuck looked at the spymaster. "Might you have any suspicions about the Earl and his household, Sir Francis? Do you have any advice for how I should begin?"

"It's unfortunate that you have been left on your own in this task, Charles," Sir Francis said, his voice tinged with kindness. "But you are held in high regard by Sir Bryce. He remarked that you were very intelligent and quite well-liked among your fellow scholars."

"I worked very hard," Chuck said, trying to gather his wits about him. "I wanted to learn."

Sir Francis looked at him, his eyes measuring. "I've discovered that it's best to use men who are willing to take the risk of being intelligencers. If you have second thoughts, it's best that you say so now. It would permit me to replace you more readily."

Did he want to withdraw from this? Chuck felt sure that he wasn't the kind of man that Sir Francis would normally want as a spy. He wasn't charming and quick-on-his-feet like Bryce, or focused and dedicated like Lady Sarah. Yet . . . yet here he was, already neck-deep in this strange, unexpected situation. Could he turn his back on Sir Francis, on the Queen? What if the extra delay in finding a replacement made a difference?

And underneath all his noble desires, there was a baser one. If he stayed on this assignment, he could get to know Lady Sarah. It was probably a fool's hope that made him think she might welcome his friendship, but he couldn't help feeling that she was very alone. She seemed like she could use a friend.

So slowly, Chuck shook his head. "No, sir. I want to be a part of this."

"That is good to hear," Sir Francis remarked. "Lady Sarah will be available to answer your questions from this point forward. You should not have any contact with me, under any circumstances. We must maintain distance in order to prevent suspicions being raised."

"Yes, sir," Chuck said, picking up his pen and resuming his note-taking.

He listened carefully, trying to absorb everything that Sir Francis was explaining. It was eye-opening to realize just how perilous the Queen's throne was. To think that there were men plotting against her because of matters like her sex and her religion.

It was easy to understand the dislike for Queen Elizabeth because she was a woman; most men didn't seem to have a high opinion of female abilities beyond bed-warming and childbearing. But Chuck had been brought up by his sister, and Eleanor had taught him, by example and by deed, that women were very capable. So he had a high respect for the Queen, not just because she was his monarch but because by every appearance, she had the necessary skills to rule England. But of course, there were many people who wouldn't see that, especially when there was the religious consideration as well.

Although Chuck followed the basic practices of his religion-attending church, providing alms to the poor-and outwardly acted like a man of faith, in truth religion mattered little to him. He certainly understood how important faith was, but he couldn't put his trust and belief in a faceless, remote presence who judged and punished harshly. That kind of God didn't fit with what he had read in the Bible, a book he had studied several times through before coming to this realization.

Admitting his lack of belief would be dangerous to the extreme, though, so Chuck had kept his thoughts to himself. Not even Eleanor or his best friend Morgan were aware of what he believed. At times, he had wished he could be devout, that he could find comfort in the Church. But his innate logic wouldn't allow him that easy comfort. So Chuck carried on as best he could.

After an hour of explanations and Chuck's questions, Sir Francis dismissed him. "Use your eyes and your ears, and your brain will discover what's important and what's not," he counseled Chuck. "Your mouth should be used least of all. _Video __et __tacere_."

"See and keep silent," Chuck automatically translated.

Sir Francis nodded, a small smile on his face. "Yes. Although I do not recommend that approach with Lady Sarah."

Chuck swallowed and Sir Francis chuckled. "She's not a fire-breathing dragon from the myths of old, Mr. Carmichael. She's just a woman."

"At least being scared of the dragon wouldn't make me seem a coward," Chuck said, trying to smile. "But I think Lady Sarah would cause even the bravest man quake in his boots."

"That is possible, yet I believe you and Lady Sarah will get along well," Sir Francis said, rising slowly from his chair.

Quickly gathering his things, Chuck stood up and followed Sir Francis to the door. "Before I leave, sir, I wanted to say thank you for trusting me with this task. I-I will work harder than I ever have before, in order to protect the Queen."

The older man looked at Chuck for a long moment before replying. "I have every confidence in you, Mr. Carmichael. Now, good luck to you."

"Thank you, Sir Francis," Chuck said quickly, then he stepped out of the office. The sound of the door closing behind him seemed especially loud in the nearly-empty corridor. To Chuck's mind, it seemed to signify the importance of this moment. From now on, his life was not just about worrying about his sister and spending time at the public house with Morgan and trying to support himself.

Now he was playing a part in protecting England and safeguarding the Queen herself. Now he had the opportunity to unmask potential traitors and criminals. And all he had to do was pretend to love a woman who was intimidating and didn't care for him in the slightest.

Chuck took a deep breath. It would do him no good to fret about matters that he couldn't control. He would meet Lady Sarah tomorrow and find a way for them to begin their false relationship. After that conversation, even though it was certain to be awkward, he could start worrying about more important matters, like how to become a spy.

XXX

A late spring morning in an English garden was a sight to behold. There was so much color, after a long winter of grays and browns: the green of the grass, the pinks and reds and whites of the roses, the sturdy wooden trellises covered in blue and purple morning glories. The sunshine was soft and warm, the rays falling lightly over the plants and flowers. There was a special pearly quality to the light in the early morning that Sarah liked particularly. Best of all was the fragrance rising from the flowers and herbs, a wealth of scent that never failed to make her draw breath deeply into her lungs.

The gravel of the path crunched softly under her shoes as she strolled through the garden. Sarah moved carefully, trying to keep her skirts clear of the dew-laden plants and the pollen that could stain fabric. As a poor lady-in-waiting, she was well-clothed by most standards, but Sarah drew a line between the frocks she wore because they reflected the queen's glory and those that she actually liked to wear. And today's dress, a scarlet brocade with wide skirts and a low, square neckline, was one of her favorites.

Most mornings, Sarah spent over an hour walking through the gardens. It was how she kept her figure-and it also let her have the time alone that she craved. The rest of the day, she had to wait attendance on the queen, navigate the politics of the household and maintain her position. This hour was just for her. Or, it had been, until she had told Mr. Carmichael how she spent her mornings.

Sarah frowned slightly. She guarded her time so fiercely; now that she thought back on yesterday's conversation, it was unusual that she had let him interfere on something she held precious. Yet this situation was already so embarrassing. She knew that they would need to begin this flirtation alone, away from prying eyes, to allow them to attain some level of naturalness before they began to put on a show for the court.

But how could they reach that point? What experience did Mr. Carmichael have with women? It would need to be convincing, and Sarah dreaded what would be involved in preparing him if he was as lacking in experience as she thought he was. If it was less than her own . . .

Oh, Sarah knew how to kiss. At least, that was what she had been told by the few men who had gotten a kiss from her. She hadn't done all that much: just stood still and kept her lips sealed shut-she had learned that lesson quickly after the first two men she had kissed seemed determined to jam their slimy tongues into her mouth. And sometimes it was almost pleasant for a moment or two. For most people, seeing her kissing Mr. Carmichael would be enough to convince them of a relationship.

Yet there were members of the court more insightful and sharp-eyed than the rest. The Queen, for one, and Lady Parry within the household, not to mention her fellow maid of honour Catherine. And then there was Sir Francis and the Earl of Leicester. Most of those individuals held powerful positions in the court, ones that they held due to observing everything. If she and Mr. Carmichael couldn't convince them, their mission would be jeopardized.

Drawing to a halt at her favorite spot in the gardens, Sarah made herself take a few deep breaths. She could do this. Her whole future depended on completing this assignment successfully. So she would find a way to do whatever was necessary, even if it meant many uncomfortable moments.

Looking out over the landscape, Sarah felt her nerves ease. There was something about the glory of nature, where there was no sex, no religion, no social status: just flowers and plants and trees, being what God intended them to be. That was what she wanted: to be what God intended her to be. And in her heart, she thought that meant being a spy.

A small noise drew her out of her thoughts. Turning slightly, she saw Mr. Carmichael steadying a swaying archway about a hundred feet away. He must have bumped into it, rocking it on its foundations and causing the noise that had disturbed her.

Putting on her best sympathetic expression, Sarah strode down the paths. "Good day, Mr. Carmichael," she said as she approached him.

"Good day, Lady Sarah," he said distractedly, his hands assessing the structure. Once he had stopped its motion, he pulled his hands away and turned towards her. "Excuse me for disturbing you."

"Not at all, Mr. Carmichael," she said, her voice brisk. "It's best that we take advantage of the time we have."

"Chuck."

Sarah looked at him, slightly confused. Mr. Carmichael gave her a wide, friendly smile. "My name is Charles, but my family and friends, they call me Chuck. I thought . . . I thought it would be more appropriate if you called me that, instead of 'Mr. Carmichael'."

"Oh," she said, feeling disconcerted. He was absolutely right. She should call him by his Christian name, and using a nickname would indicate a greater intimacy for anyone who eavesdropped on their conversations. The fact that he had come up with that idea, that it had never crossed her mind to use his first name . . .

"Is-is that all right?" Mr. Carmichael, or that is, Chuck, asked. "Normally I'm not so familiar with someone I just met, but I thought given the circumstances-"

"Fine," Sarah said quickly. "It's a smart idea."

He smiled widely at her, clearly pleased by her compliment. "Thank you. I suppose there's a spot where we could talk?" When she nodded silently, he held his arm out to her. "Then lead on."

Lacking a reason to refuse, Sarah rested her hand lightly on his arm and started walking towards one of the benches that was tucked away to one side of the garden. It would be a quiet spot for her instruction. Chuck stayed silent, something for which Sarah was grateful. It gave her time to collect her upended thoughts.

Why was he smiling at her so much? What happened to the nervous, anxious-looking young man she had met yesterday? Instead, there was this smiling, pleasant-faced person who seemed determined to put her at ease. The change was so sudden that she couldn't help commenting on it.

"There is a change in you since yesterday," she said, trying to make her words inoffensive.

"That's true," Chuck said, looking at her. "I apologize for how I acted before. I was very shocked by what Sir Francis had to say. And-and to be honest, I had no intention of being an intelligencer. I thought my friend was being kind by arranging a position for me within the Earl's household. I had no idea that there was a darker purpose to his favor. One that calls into question his past friendship to me."

"I see," Sarah said, even though she was still confused. "Did you simply need more time to become accustomed to the idea?"

"In part, yes," he said, giving her another smile, yet one that was more muted. "But then I realized that this was a rare opportunity and I shouldn't shy away from it." He ducked his head a little. "My sister says I'm equal parts impulsiveness and thoughtfulness. And in making this decision, I thought and thought and thought, and then in a flash I decided. With my mind made up, my nerves seemed to have vanished, once I told myself to stop worrying about that which I couldn't control."

As soon as they reached the bench, Sarah dropped his arm and took a seat. "That . . . that is good to hear," she said, carefully folding her skirts to leave room for him next to her. "And good advice."

He nodded, remaining on his feet. "It's advice I think I will need to keep in mind during this assignment."

"Yes," Sarah said quietly. She squared her shoulders. "We need to discuss our experiences. Please, sit down," she said, gesturing towards the space remaining on the bench.

Chuck hesitated for a moment before folding his very long legs and taking a seat. He kept himself on his side of the bench, as if trying to leave as much room as he could between them. "Our experiences?" he asked, looking at her.

"Yes," she repeated. "What skills we each have and what we need to improve in order to convince everyone that our romance is real."

It took a moment for him to understand her. She knew when he realized what she meant, by the flush that crept over his face. From the heat in her own cheeks, she knew he could tell how she felt, too.

"I-I thought we would talk more about ourselves. Get to know each other. So instead of trying to look comfortable, we-we would actually be comfortable." Chuck's voice was low and he tripped over his words as he shifted on the bench.

Talk about herself? Sarah felt a chill fall over her. The last thing she wanted to do was to open herself up to some stranger. That was not possible. Suddenly, his newfound confidence made a kind of sense. He thought that the best way to fake a romance was to act like they were actually interested in each other and hope that they could fool others. So he put on an act, trying to be friendly to make her open up to him. But the only person who would be fooled was Mr. Carmichael.

"I don't think so," she said, choosing her words carefully. "I think that would be unnecessarily dangerous. If we are seen showing signs of physical affection, that will be enough to start the gossip and ensure that the court's opinion of us."

He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to disagree, but I do. If we just start . . . being physical," he said, his flush deepening a little, "the wrong impression will be created. It's a romance that will distract everyone, not an illicit tumble that lasts a few days. This relationship has to keep people distracted for weeks. That means we build it-the relationship-slowly, starting with conversations and smiles and-and everything else that happens when you meet someone that is interesting to you."

Sarah bit her lower lip as she thought over his words. Was he right? It was uncertain just how much time they had. If it was only a week or so, it would be difficult to allow a slow start to their false relationship. Yet in the same breath, if their relationship was based on the physical, as time passed questions would be raised-the wrong kind of questions.

As if he could read her mind and sense her indecision, he kept talking. "Also, you'll be asked questions about me. About how we met, what interests I have. If you don't know the answers, it will undermine what we're trying to achieve."

The logic was clear and well-reasoned. Chuck was making a lot of sense, yet . . . yet her instincts were clamoring for her to keep arguing, to push forward with her approach. It was one thing to touch and kiss him; it was very different to act as if she was in love with him.

But what other choice was there? She knew he was correct-that somehow, he had understood their task better than she had. And while it was infuriating to admit that truth, it was a romance, not the appearance of intercourse, that was called for in this situation. However, she knew that a chaste, proper love affair wouldn't be enough. There had to be some heat to spark true gossip.

"I suppose you're right," Sarah said in a slightly grudging voice. "It would be unusual if we didn't know anything about each other."

Like quicksilver, a smile flashed across his face. It was remarkable, she thought, how his feelings were so much on display. It was so odd to know exactly what he was feeling, to not have to guess or search for the truth behind a veiled expression as one did here at Court.

"However," she said quickly, "that doesn't mean that my point isn't valid. We need to prepare for the physical aspect in addition to whatever . . . romantic element we agree upon."

Chuck ran a hand over his chin, stroking his beard in what looked like a nervous habit. Then he nodded a little. "That seems . . . prudent. Very well. But-but there's plenty of time for that, isn't there?"

So he was feeling shy? Sarah held back a sigh of annoyance, but resigned herself to begin with the facts. Folding her hands in her lap, Sarah said crisply, "Then let's begin. Where were you born?"

"Um . . . Berwick," he said slowly.

Sarah raised an eyebrow at his answer. "You're far away from your birthplace," she commented, feeling a vague sense of curiosity about how he had ended up in London. "What year were you born?"

"1564. In September." He looked at her with narrowed eyes, as if waiting for a moment to ask his own questions. But she wasn't ready for that, so she kept talking.

"So you will be nineteen in a few months," Sarah said, noting that he was younger than she was-she had been nineteen over four months. "And you have a sister, yes? Is she older or younger?"

"Eleanor is four years older than me-I'm sorry, are you going to be able to remember all this?" Chuck asked.

"I can remember everything," Sarah said after a moment of hesitation.

He looked somewhat skeptical. "Everything?"

For some odd reason, she felt both impressed and annoyed by his skepticism. She shifted on the bench. "Yes, everything. Somehow, I just know how to recall anything I learn."

"I could have used that skill at Cambridge," Chuck said with a small smile. He looked at her for a long moment. "What about you? Where were you born? When is your birthday?"

She opened her mouth, ready to tell him the facts that everyone at court knew. But when she spoke, she was surprised by her answer. "France."

His face lit up. "Truly? Did you live there long? I've always wanted to travel and France has always been the country I wish to see the most."

Why had she told him the truth? What was it about him that made her give in to him? She shook her head. "I was born there, but I don't talk about it. Most people at Court assume I was born here in England. In Derbyshire," she said, trying to repair her mistake.

"Then if asked, I'll say Derbyshire," he said promptly.

Nearly sighing in relief, Sarah nodded. "Thank you."

Chuck looked surprised. "No thanks are necessary, Lady Sarah. I want to make sure I don't make any mistakes. Or embarrass you. That-that's a difficult task for me, but I'm going to work very hard." He ducked his head shyly.

Sarah took advantage of his lowered gaze to really study him. When they had met yesterday, she had dismissed him as a nervous, insecure man; someone that she would have to put up with in order to complete this assignment. Yet her opinion of him was beginning to change. His flashes of confidence, his ability to argue with her using logic instead of power . . . she hadn't expected that. True, he clearly had insecurity issues, but he was attempting to move past them at least.

Perhaps this wouldn't be as bad as she had thought.

"We both will work hard," Sarah said, lightly resting her hand on his arm. "After all, our queen and our country depend on us."

He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes locking on hers. She looked back, noticing for the first time how unusual his eyes were. Brown eyes were so common and she had never really felt the need to examine someone's eyes. But there was something special about his eyes . . . they were a peculiar amber color, one that was full of warmth and sincerity.

What was she doing? Sarah made herself look away. She had just reminded herself what the stakes of this mission were. And here she was, acting like a silly girl and gazing into a man's eyes. She was the more experienced intelligencer, at least in terms of training. She was the one who needed to ensure their preparation was perfect. Realizing that her hand was still on his arm, she pulled away and folded both of her hands in her lap again.

"It's nearly time that I report to Lady Parry and begin my duties for today," Sarah said, trying to sound unaffected. "Perhaps we each could write a dossier about our backgrounds and then exchange them at our next meeting."

It might be her imagination, but his voice seemed a trifle thick when he spoke. "Yes. That sounds practical."

Taking a deep breath, she searched for the right words for what she was about to suggest. "Before I go, there's one more issue to discuss." She paused, waiting for Chuck to look at her before continuing. She schooled her face to remain pale and unflustered. "I have experience with kissing. Do you?"

"Kissing?" he asked, his eyes going wide for a moment. He cleared his throat. "Oh, I . . . I have done some kissing. I mean, I've kissed girls. A girl." His cheeks were flushed and he ran a hand through his dark, curly hair. "I-I must admit, women have never seemed that attracted. . ." His voice trailed off, his embarrassment and shyness obvious.

While she was tempted to press him to finish his sentence, there wasn't time. She had to deal with this problem, and although his shyness was somewhat sweet, she needed to know what he could do. She felt frustrated and annoyed and wished to be somewhere else. Or to just be alone, here in the gardens, in her special place.

The sooner she did this, the sooner she might have a minute alone. So Sarah leaned close to him and kissed him.

The first thing she noticed was the contrast of textures: the softness of his lips against her own and the slight coarseness of his beard brushing against her skin. He seemed stunned into motionlessness by her actions, remaining still and keeping his mouth closed. Just as she was preparing to pull away, though, he tilted his head slightly and applied a bit of pressure. And that . . . that was different, she thought vaguely. He didn't thrust his tongue into her mouth or grab the back of her head. He didn't try to exert control over her. He was gentle.

Sarah broke the kiss, leaning back from him. She noticed that while she had kept her eyes open, Chuck's eyes were closed. Idly, she noticed that his eyelashes were quite long and very thick.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, fixing her under his gaze. He licked his lips in an absent-minded fashion, then swallowed. "I-I wasn't expecting that."

What could she say to that? That she wasn't expecting it to be so unrevolting? That she hadn't thought he knew what he was doing when it came to kissing a woman, but she had been pleasantly surprised?

There was nothing to say. So Sarah rose to her feet carefully. Chuck scrambled up into a standing position.

"When will you next come to Court?" Sarah asked, hoping her voice sounded unruffled.

He searched her face for a moment. "I . . . I expect to visit tomorrow night."

"I will be there as well. We can exchange our dossiers." Sarah knew she appeared terribly stiff, but she had to act this way or else she felt like she might reveal much more emotion than she should. She made a quick curtsy, then turned and started walking towards the palace.

End, Chapter 1


	3. Chapter 2

**Ready ****at ****Your ****Hand****, ****Chapter**** 2 (3/10)**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: In the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, a Catholic plot against the queen comes to the attention of spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham. To protect Elizabeth, he develops an unusual plan: hide the passing of intelligence between two agents by a false romance. When Lady Sarah Walker and Chuck Carmichael meet, though, their pretend flirtation becomes much more.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author****'****s ****Note**: Thank you to everyone who's been reading and reviewing this story! Don't forget to visit my Tumblr if you want to learn some more about the history going on.

XXX

"A clear and innocent conscience fears nothing."

Queen Elizabeth I

XXX

To step into a presence chamber at the court of Queen Elizabeth was a dazzling experience. The vast room was the largest that Chuck had ever seen, with rich tapestries covering the walls except where tall windows overlooked the moonlit gardens. Large candelabras were positioned throughout the room, adding light and warmth. At each door, guards or officers of the court were stationed to ensure no one entered without permission.

Crowding the room was a collection of England's nobility: earls and countesses, marquesses and marchionesses, viscounts and barons and knights. Ladies-in-waiting in white dresses mingled with clerks and courtiers while servants carried trays, bearing goblets of spiced wine and trays of sweetmeats. The candle light glinted off jewels and gold-embroidered garments; everywhere he looked there was rich silks and brocades clothing the elite, rich and powerful. And over the whole room hovered a loud buzz of conversation that nearly drowned out the music played by two ladies upon the lute and the virginals.

Chuck swallowed, feeling his nerves increase. He was wearing his finest doublet, a black velvet that was pinked to reveal its white linen lining. There was a narrow line of black-and-gold braid around the cuffs and along the buttons that fastened the doublet closed over his chest. His trunk hose matched his doublet and his small ruff, although much smaller than ones worn by other men, was made from fine linen.

In his lodgings, he had felt he was well-dressed, his clothing appropriate to his station. Now, however, surrounded by so many examples of male and female beauty . . . he felt like a crow amidst peacocks. How could he hope to seem believable as the lover of Lady Sarah Walker? Could he convince the court that he was worthy of such a beautiful, intelligent woman?

All of his self-doubts threatened to crash down upon him, but Chuck resolved not to let them. Even though Lady Sarah was undoubtedly the most interesting woman he had ever met, it was clear that she had no interest in him. From the way she had rebuffed his attempts at friendship, he had to conclude that all she wanted was for him to act his part and nothing more.

Yet it was her very rebuttals that made him even more determined to be her friend. She had seemed so shocked that he wished to know her and gain an insight into her character. It made him curious about her history, wondering just what had led her from her birthplace in France to the patronage of Sir Francis and the court of Queen Elizabeth.

So he would carry on in his attempts to befriend Lady Sarah, while doing his best to fulfill the requirements of the assignment. Even though thinking upon said requirements made him remember how she had kissed him.

He quickly took a goblet from a passing waiter's tray and sipped it, needing something that might distract him from his memories. But it was futile: who wouldn't want to remember such a kiss? The way her scent of roses and apples had flooded his nostrils, how her hand rested on his arm as her lips touched his, the feeling of her lips softening slightly as he had returned her kiss . . .

If he was honest, it wasn't exactly a kiss worthy of drunken boasting or lifted from the pages of the cheaply-printed novels smuggled around by scholars at Cambridge. He knew that there was little feeling behind it on Lady Sarah's part, and Chuck strongly felt that affection and love made kissing better. But even with all those justifications, it was still the best kiss he'd ever experienced.

It was strange, how willing she was to trust him with kisses and how very unwilling she was to let him know her. Lady Sarah Walker was a mystery to him, not unlike the scientific experiments he had conducted at university. And he wondered if she might be solved as he had approached his experiments: with concentration and preparation.

Chuck was so lost in his thoughts that it took the quickly-descending hush in the room to alert him to the entrance of the Queen. Like everyone in the presence chamber, he bowed and lowered his head as the monarch walked towards her chair of state, speaking briefly to a few courtiers as she moved through the parted crowd. Once she was seated and the music resumed, he straightened up and swept his eyes over the room. With his height, so much greater than the majority of those present, it did not take him long to find Lady Sarah.

She was attired in a gown of shimmering white fabric and her ruff appeared more like cobwebs than lace. Unlike other ladies-in-waiting, she wasn't dripping in jewels; she wore a simple pair of pearls in her ears and nothing else. He thought it suited her, to be so unadorned. Because she was beautiful enough to not require further ornaments.

Taking a deep breath, he felt for the small square of paper in the pocket of his trunk hose, containing a list of important facts about himself. He wasn't sure how they would arrange to swap their information, yet he knew she would have a way. But first, he would need to move closer towards her. At least, he hoped he should do so. Given the abrupt ending to their meeting yesterday, he wasn't sure how to proceed-if he should wait for her to approach him or if it was all right for him to begin a conversation with her. But he didn't think he could stand here and wait for her without something horrible and unnerving happening to him.

Moving in such a crowded room without catastrophe should take more grace than he possessed, yet somehow he managed to navigate his way a bit closer towards Lady Sarah, who was in conversation with another maid of honour. He sipped his wine, trying to act like he was used to being part of this assemblage. Like he belonged here.

XXX

If she hadn't been in conversation with Lady Catherine Miller, the most eagle-eyed maid of honour in the whole household, Sarah might have smiled at the sight of Chuck trying to fit in amid the preening courtiers. His height automatically drew attention to him, and being a relative stranger at court had certainly led to curious glances directed towards him as people wondered who he was. But it was more than that . . . as soon as she had walked into the room, her eyes had located him, almost without effort or thought. It was peculiar.

"We've only been here a week and already I'm bored with Greenwich," Lady Catherine pouted. She smoothed back a strand of red-gold hair, then fussed with her gown. "And white makes me look jaundiced."

"You're talking nonsense, Catherine," Sarah said, looking at the only woman in the household that she might consider more than an acquaintance. "And you know that I won't reassure you when you go fishing for compliments like that."

Catherine's lips turned up in a smirk. "You're lucky we've been friends for so long, Sarah, or else I would be incredibly jealous of you and say nasty things behind your back."

It was true: they had known each other for four years, as they had both become maids of honour at the same time. At first, Sarah had steered clear of all the ladies-in-waiting, not forming any friendships. But when she observed the havoc Catherine could create, playing friends and enemies off one another, she had made a point of lowering her guard and making overtures of friendship towards Catherine. And it had actually turned out to be fun. Catherine enjoyed telling jokes and talking about everyone at court; she had often made Sarah hold back laughter from Catherine's cutting whispers and accurate imitations of pompous courtiers during events. And much of what Sarah knew about managing men came from watching Catherine's unrestrained flirting.

Yet as much fun Catherine was, the last thing Sarah needed was her presence while Sarah talked with Chuck. But how to direct her away so that Sarah could approach Chuck? She pondered the problem as her eyes looked around the room, monitoring who approached the Queen. Yet her gaze kept flicking towards Chuck, trying to make sure that he had not come to any harm. With his gangly frame, she wouldn't put it past him to trip and fall over his own feet.

"So just who is that man, Sarah?"

Catherine's voice drew Sarah from her thoughts with a thump. "What man?" she asked dumbly.

"The one you keep looking at," Catherine said, her green eyes locked on Sarah's blue. "The giant with the ten-year-old doublet."

Some intelligencer she was, Sarah thought dryly. Yet she made herself sound as natural as possible when she answered. "I believe his name is Carmichael. He's part of the Earl of Lincoln's retinue."

"Carmichael? I wonder if he's Scottish. Scotsmen are so very good at kissing." Catherine ran her eyes appraisingly over Chuck, not unlike a farmer assessing the stud potential of a stallion.

Sarah swallowed, trying to push aside the memory of kissing Chuck. "I-I don't believe he is."

The little catch in her voice was enough for Catherine's head to whip around to look at Sarah. "And what else do you know about him?"

Thinking quickly, Sarah realized that this was a perfect opportunity to lay some of the groundwork for the feigned relationship between herself and Chuck. Her hesitation of a moment ago wasn't planned, but she could make it work to her advantage. Catherine was one of the biggest gossips at court, but she was also loyal. If she knew that Sarah was interested in Chuck, she'd hold back from flirting with him.

She lowered her voice and leaned in towards Catherine. "I met him in the gardens yesterday," she said, basing her story on fact. "We spoke for a few moments after I-after I noticed that he looked lost," she improvised. "The Earl had sent him to the palace to deliver some letters, but he was misdirected and wound up in the gardens."

Catherine raised her eyebrows. "A few minutes' conversation and now you can't keep your eyes off him?"

"You're exaggerating, Catherine," Sarah said. "He clearly doesn't know anyone here; I thought I might say a few words to him. But if it will make tongues wag . . ."

"I think that's what this court needs-some excitement, something to talk about," Catherine said, unknowingly confirming the soundness of the plan. She turned towards a passing servant and plucked two goblets of wine from his tray, then held them out to Sarah. "Go take him some wine."

Part of Sarah wanted to protest that Chuck already had wine, but she managed to stop herself from saying that. Because then she would have to explain how she already knew his Christian name. Still, she hesitated for a moment.

"Go on!" Catherine urged her. "Make his night, since you happen to look good in white."

Her wide grin was infectious. Sarah felt the corners of her mouth tug up into a smile. "Oh, all right," she said, taking the goblets from Catherine. She hoped she had done enough to sell herself as slightly nervous and somewhat reluctant to talk with Chuck.

Moving carefully, she slipped past the Spanish ambassador and a few groups of courtiers as she approached Chuck. She drew up by his side and spoke softly. "Good evening, Mr. Carmichael."

The sound of her voice seemed to have a positive effect on him. He straightened up from his slight slouch and the blank, somewhat unhappy expression on his face faded, replaced by a small smile. "Good evening, Lady Sarah," he said, bowing to her.

She curtsied and then spoke, pitching her voice louder than her usual tone. "I thought you might like some wine and a friendly face."

"Thank you, Lady Sarah," he said, taking the goblet and matching her pitch. "And your face is-is much more than friendly." He looked at her for a moment. "It's . . . it's quite beautiful."

It was so unexpected, him clearly attempting to charm her, that she nearly gaped at him. She took a quick sip of wine, hiding her face in the goblet while she schooled her expression. When she spoke again, it was quieter. "That was direct."

"Direct?" he asked, looking a bit disappointed. "I was trying to be charming. Like-" He stopped, then went on. "I was pretending to be one of my friends from university. He could have done this better than I."

"We can work on your lines another time," Sarah said, gazing up at him and putting on the appearance of a woman waiting breathlessly for his next words.

Chuck tilted his head to one side, looking back at her, then smiled brightly. "You do look beautiful tonight."

"Thank you," she said, letting herself blush slightly. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Catherine watching them closely. Knowing that Catherine would want to see more, she reached out and rested her hand lightly on Chuck's arm, just about in the same place she had during yesterday's conversation.

She could feel his muscles jump slightly under her touch, but otherwise he gave no sign of nerves. "You have your information?" she whispered, looking into his eyes.

His jaw tightened slightly and she could see him swallow, then he nodded. "Yes," he said softly. "It-it's in my pocket."

In his pocket? Sarah nearly groaned. "Which one?" she hissed.

"Left one," he said sheepishly, his arm moving under her hand to gesture towards his hip.

"Put your hand in your pocket and draw the paper into your palm before pulling your hand out," she said. She waited until he had done so, then stood up on her tiptoes and leaned in towards him. He caught his breath and Sarah did her best to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. Clearly, she was feeling the pressure of making this exchange while looking like a couple whispering sweet nothings to each other.

"I'm going to slide my hand down your arm," she said softly, her lips near his ear. "My dossier is just inside my cuff. When my fingers reach your wrist, slip your hand underneath my wrist and pull out the paper. I'll take your paper from your hand at the same time. Understand?"

"Yes," he said, his voice choked. Sarah paused long enough to look at him, to take in all the signs of a man affected by a woman: the deep breaths, the glazed eyes, the flushed face. And that made Sarah realize how close she was to him: close enough to smell the faint scent of pine needles and feel the heat of his body.

She had to keep her head. "Turn your head towards my face, act like you're saying something to me when we do this," she muttered. When she felt his breath wash over her jaw and neck, Sarah moved her hand slowly down his arm, hoping that this would work as planned.

In a moment, with the brush of his fingers against her wrist and her hand pressing against his palm, it was done. She took a step back, his paper hidden in her hand. "I hope to see you again soon, Mr. Carmichael?"

He still looked somewhat dazed, but he managed to nod his head. "Yes, Lady Sarah." He gulped some of his wine, then smiled at her. It was a warm, shy smile, one that made her feel strangely unsteady until she blinked. Sarah gave him her best flirtatious smile and walked away, blindly heading towards Catherine.

"Just how long were you in that garden with him?" Catherine asked without ceremony.

Sarah took a sip of her wine, marveling in a distracted way that she had kept her grip on the goblet through her exchange with Chuck. "Not very long. Just long enough."

Catherine began prattling on, one of her usual running commentaries on the court and its members. Sarah was thankful for that; it gave her time to compose herself. And to try and ignore the piece of paper, now tucked against her wrist, that suddenly she was very eager to read.

XXX

After that first public meeting, Sarah knew that the seeds had been planted for her pretend relationship with Chuck. Thanks to being the youngest and least-experienced member of the Earl of Lincoln's staff, Chuck made frequent trips to the palace as a courier. That allowed him to stay in contact with Sarah-and gave them the opportunity to continue their relationship under the eyes of the court. But she found that her interactions with Charles Carmichael, even those without body contact, were quite dizzying.

It had started when she had read over his dossier, written in a script that was a loose sprawl. She had expected something more refined, more controlled; just looking at his handwriting had distracted her until she settled down to actually read his words.

Chuck was a good writer. His emotions shone through on the page just like they did on his face, making the ordinary facts he conveyed less cut-and-dried. She could sense his affection for his sister, his loyalty to his friend Morgan, and the hurt sparked by the loss of his parents.

By the time she finished reading, she was nibbling on her lower lip. It was a nervous habit, one that she tried not to indulge, because any sign of weakness was too dangerous. But reading his words made her curious. He'd suffered in his life, losing his mother to illness and his father to abandonment and later death. Yet those experiences hadn't jaded him. Hadn't turned him into a shell. The way his smiles were so easily given indicated a man who was open and caring. It was such a conundrum to her.

And with each meeting, her confusion deepened. The next time she saw him was when he visited the court during a musical concert, but he spent the entire performance listening to the players. It wasn't until the end of the event that she caught him alone for a moment, long enough for him to pass along a report and then ask if he might see her in the gardens the next day.

She hadn't expected him to . . . what did it matter what she expected? He'd done his job by giving her his report. Anything more was unnecessary at this early stage, especially not when they had created such a performance at their last meeting.

Yet those cold, hard facts hadn't stopped Sarah from spending extra time on her appearance before this meeting. It was expected of a woman who was interested in a man, she knew. She was keeping up her part of their falsified relationship, giving the court something to talk about.

Waiting to meet Chuck in the gardens, her curled hair blowing in the breeze, she had been extra-careful about her gown. It was her very favorite dress, a blue-and-silver brocade that made her eyes bluer and her waist smaller. In this dress, she knew she was beautiful without needing her mirror. And with its loose sleeves, this dress had no place for the stiletto that Sir Francis had given her, so she left it behind, hidden in the sleeve of another dress.

When she saw Chuck approach, she made herself stand still, letting him come to her. As he walked towards her, she saw the spark in his eyes that she couldn't admit she had hoped she would see. But then he just smiled and offered her his arm.

"I thought we could walk a little?"

Sarah blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Walk, you know-you put one foot in front of another?" The teasing tone in his voice was quickly dropped when he took in her glare. "I thought walking together while we talked would look more natural, instead of talking in one place."

The sense of his statement made Sarah nod. She took his arm and they walked in silence for a few moments, only the crunching gravel under their shoes puncturing the quiet.

"I'm sorry I couldn't talk with you last night," he said softly. "Since his wife was performing, the Earl instructed all his servants to pay attention during the concert."

"Oh," Sarah said softly. "I see." She looked up at him. "It's quite all right, Chuck."

"Is it?" he asked, looking back at her. "You don't think it interrupted the progress we're making?"

She shook her head. "No, not at all. And more importantly, you were able to pass along your information."

He nodded. "I don't know if I found anything helpful, but . . . but I'm still new at this." He smiled at her softly.

"I'm sure Sir Francis has taken that into account and understands if some of the information isn't useful." Sarah cringed slightly at the horrid primness of her words. But Chuck didn't seem hurt by them.

"I hope so, too," he said simply.

"And I'm sure you have discovered intelligence that he would not know otherwise," she rushed to add.

Chuck gave her a small grin. "You don't have to worry about my confidence, Lady Sarah. At least, not at this moment."

"Why not at this moment?" If she sounded slightly flirtatious, it was because she was practicing for when they were in public.

It took him longer than she thought to reply. And when he did, his words were the last thing she expected. "Somehow, when I'm with you, I feel like I can do anything."

There was something about his soft, hesitant words that made something inside her melt. But she couldn't show that. So she looked at him and said, "Sarah."

"Excuse me?" Chuck asked, his forehead wrinkled.

"You-you can leave off 'Lady' when we're talking privately," Sarah said. "It . . . it saves time."

For some reason, that made him smile brightly at her. So brightly that she looked away and dropped his arm, taking a step towards a bed of jessamine. As the rich fragrance of the flowers washed over her, Sarah pulled herself together.

She was supposed to be focusing on the assignment. It was about faking a relationship, not creating one. They knew the critical facts about each other. Any further relaxing of the boundaries between them would be contrary to what they were trying to achieve.

There were a few other ladies-in-waiting at the far end of the garden. She did not want to appear like she was unhappy with Chuck, even though the emotions he made her feel . . . they were things she shouldn't feel. She needed to regain her calm and think of how she could improve the appearance of their relationship. Spotting Catherine among the other ladies, Sarah made up her mind.

With one last deep breath, inhaling the jessamine's scent, Sarah readied herself to face Chuck. She smiled at him and took his arm again.

"Are you all right, S-Sarah?" His voice trembled slightly on her name, but she did not let it affect her.

"I'm fine, Chuck. Thank you for asking. Could you tell me more about Cambridge?"

"Cambridge?" he repeated, looking confused.

"Yes, Cambridge. I've never been there, and of course women aren't allowed to enroll. I admit I've always been curious about what university is like."

It was one of the oldest tricks in the book: ask questions and make him talk, in order to not reveal anything of herself. And it worked. Although he gave her another confused glance, he began describing his university career, telling stories about his tutors and experiments he had conducted, about his fellow scholars including the Sir Bryce to whom he seemed closest.

They slowly walked through the gardens, Sarah leading him towards the group of women clustered around a clump of rose bushes. As they approached the ladies-in-waiting, she could feel tension creep into Chuck's arm and he stopped talking.

"Anything wrong?" she asked, pausing and pulling her hand away from his arm.

"No-no, nothing's wrong. Everything's good. I-I just-there's some ladies ahead, so I . . ."

Sarah smiled as sincerely as she could. "It will be fine. Everyone will like you. And it helps develop our relationship."

He took a breath, then nodded. "Right. That's right. I can do this."

Without saying anything else, Sarah stepped towards the other ladies-in-waiting. Besides Catherine, there was Mary Parry, the niece of Head Gentlewoman of the Bedchamber Blanche Parry, and Lady Elizabeth Montague, the daughter of an earl. They were three of the most well-connected, wealthy, pretty women at court. And if Sarah and Chuck couldn't convince these three that their relationship was real, they would have a difficult road ahead of them.

As they approached, Catherine stopped her conversation and smirked. "Sarah. Finally pausing for air?"

Reminding herself that she had to put on a performance, Sarah flushed. "Catherine, Mary, Elizabeth, have you made the acquaintance of Mr. Charles Carmichael?" She quickly rattled off introductions and Chuck smiled and bowed to each lady in turn.

"What brings you to court, Mr. Carmichael?" Elizabeth asked smoothly, her hands folded at her waist.

"I'm part of the Earl of Lincoln's household, Lady Elizabeth," Chuck said. "It was a lucky chance that I received this position, one that permits me to visit the palace and meet so many people."

"I believe I saw you at the concert last night," Elizabeth said. "You were enjoying the music."

A quick smile lit up Chuck's face. "I was. Music is one of my great loves."

Elizabeth smiled. "Mine as well. I take so much comfort from my lute."

"Sadly, I never had the chance to learn any instrument, yet that means any willing musician would always find an audience in me."

Chuck liked music? Why hadn't he included that in the dossier, Sarah thought somewhat crossly. Then she shook her head a little, trying to ignore her feeling of isolation. It didn't matter. Soon she would be finished with this assignment and would begin her life as a spy, far away from the court and England.

"Sarah is not known for her playing," Catherine said. "But it would appear she entertains you in other ways, Mr. Carmichael."

A young woman would blush at that, so Sarah let her embarrassment show on her face. It was the first time that one of Catherine's outrageous remarks was directed towards her, so it wasn't difficult to have her cheeks turn pink. "Catherine, really."

"Just stating the truth, after seeing you two the other evening," Catherine said airily.

Sarah felt like she had to make some kind of statement about how she felt about Chuck. Something that would give Elizabeth and Mary the message that they should keep their hands off. She wracked her mind for something to say.

"Lady Sarah?"

Chuck's voice interrupted her thoughts. She turned her head quickly to look at him, taking in his regretful expression.

"I'm afraid that I must return to work now." He smiled at her, then lifted her hand and kissed the air just above her knuckles. "Thank you for a lovely walk."

"Of-of course. Yes, thank you," Sarah said, her mind moving quickly. Although she quailed at being left alone with the other ladies-in-waiting, it would be much easier to discuss him if he was gone. "I will see you soon?"

"I hope so, Lady Sarah," he said. He turned and bowed to each of the other ladies, then headed up the path towards the palace.

The four ladies stood in silence, until Mary spoke. "I don't know what you see in him, Lady Sarah."

"I wager he's a good kisser," Catherine said with a grin.

Mary, the youngest of the four of them, blushed. "He seems very nice, but . . ."

"But what?" Sarah asked, looking at thirteen-year-old Mary.

"But anyone can see he's as poor as a church mouse," Mary said. "If you marry him, you would have to leave the Court, and then how would you live?"

"Out of the mouths of babes," Elizabeth said. "He is very pleasant, but Sarah, you are worthy of someone much better."

Sarah had been part of many similar discussions over the years, conversing with maids who had suitors and lovers. Usually, she was the first one to be practical, to point out a lack of money or a moral deficiency in the man under scrutiny. But to hear her fellow ladies so easily dismiss Chuck . . . she knew she had to defend him. And the words came surprisingly easily to her.

"He might not be wealthy, but C-Mr. Carmichael has excellent prospects. And even more important than the money in his pocket is his kindness and intelligence, not to mention the high regard he holds me in," Sarah said, her words tumbling over themselves. "I have not known him long, yet I have seen nothing so far that makes me regret forming a friendship with him."

Catherine blinked. "My Lord, Sarah, have you gone and fallen in love with him already?"

Had she gone too far? Sarah tried to recover. To say what a woman in this situation should say. "I do not know. I just know that . . . that I like him."

"And clearly he likes you," Elizabeth said. "His eyes never left you, Sarah."

"He's a giant," Mary said with a giggle. "I've never seen such a tall man."

Before Sarah could reply, Lady Parry appeared out of the shrubbery. "Ladies! Her Majesty seeks entertainment, and here you four are, gossiping and giggling!"

"Our apologies, Lady Parry," Sarah said quickly, bobbing a curtsy. "We'll go immediately."

"See that you do!" Lady Parry said, her voice both bark and bite; all of them knew that Lady Parry put the Queen first. But she was scrupulously fair and took care that a lady-in-waiting was disciplined only when it was truly necessary.

As they hurried up to the palace, Catherine drew close to Sarah. "Sarah, if you ever want time alone with Mr. Carmichael . . ."

Sarah's cheeks felt like they were on fire. "I-I don't know what you mean."

Catherine harrumphed. "If you'd like to get closer to him, there's no need to find some dark corner somewhere. You can use our room for an hour and I can keep you from being interrupted."

At this point, Sarah sincerely hoped that pretending to have a relationship with Chuck would not come to that. It would be entirely too embarrassing. She managed a quick smile at Catherine. "Thank you, Catherine, but that won't be necessary."

"Do you think you need to hold out for marriage? Ridiculous. If there was ever a marrying kind, Mr. Carmichael is it. So you might as well see what he's like first-"

"Later, Catherine!" Sarah hissed as they stepped into the Queen's audience chamber and began their duties.

XXX

The Earl of Lincoln must have many sterling qualities, Chuck thought idly. Although Chuck had yet to meet his employer, the Earl was reputed to be a fair, even-keeled man, not given to rages or flights of fancy. Such qualities were what you would expect in a Lord High Admiral. He certainly paid his workers a fair wage; Chuck had never dreamed he would make fifteen pounds a year. But all that being said, the Earl had one flaw: he was fanatical about candles. While the family quarters within the Earl's London home were well-lit, in the staff rooms there were severe rations on the number of candles permitted.

Chuck hunched his shoulders, trying to get as close as possible to the surface of his desk. The one small candle he was allowed did not throw off much light, so he had to peer closely at the letter he was copying. He would not be issued a new candle until the day after tomorrow, so he was taking a great risk with this late night work session.

Of course, it might be easier if it wasn't pitch black in the office when the curtains were drawn. But as he was doing work not for the Earl but for Sir Francis at the moment, it had seemed wiser to squint and not risk discovery.

When Chuck had opened the daily mail packet that morning, in the office inside the Earl's house on the Strand, one letter had stood out. It was on thick, heavy paper, appearing to have traveled a great distance. Something about the writing, how the letters were formed, made him suspect it was written by a foreigner. Turning it over, he had noticed the wax seal was already half-broken. It would be very easy for him to finish the job, to read the letter and see if his suspicion was correct . . .

He glanced around the room, noting that Mr. Milbarge, the Earl's head clerk, was in the hallway, just visible through the partially-open door. From the sound of it, he was talking to the Earl's private secretary, Mr. Winterbottom. This was a piece of luck: Mr. Milbarge was strangely infatuated with Mr. Winterbottom, a refined elderly man with an aristocratic bearing. If they were talking, Chuck had a chance.

Carefully, he slid his fingers under the edge of the letter, lifting the wax seal from the paper. Moving slowly, he smoothed out the pages and ran his eyes over it, his heart leaping into his throat. He knew enough to see that it was written in code, but it looked nothing like the code Chuck used in his reports to Sir Francis.

This was something he should definitely report, but how? There wasn't time to copy the letter now, and he couldn't steal the letter. Chuck thought for a moment, then quickly grabbed another piece of parchment and folded it around the letter, hiding its original address. He wrote his own name and direction on the new piece of paper, then dropped a blob of wax to seal it closed. Then he lifted the lid of his desk and placed the letter inside. By the time Mr. Milbarge entered the room, the rest of the mail packet was waiting on his desk while Chuck was busy performing one of his usual tasks: making notations in the Earl's household accounts ledger.

"Move it along, Carmichael," Mr. Milbarge drawled, picking up the letters and flicking through them idly. "Cook will need the ledger updated before she can do the shopping for today's dinner."

"Yes, Mr. Milbarge," Chuck said, trying to sound cowed. It wasn't a hard task, not when he thought about the letter inside his desk.

The rest of the day felt interminable. Chuck knew his best chance of success was to copy the letter at night, once the household was quiet. But that meant he spent the whole day with his nerves stressed to the limit. He had never been talented at keeping secrets; Eleanor used to be able to worm the truth out of him with just a look.

But he must have grown better at lying, because there seemed to be no suspicion directed towards him. Chuck had spent the afternoon reviewing information from the Earl's home farm and preparing a report on the harvest, while Mr. Milbarge had gone over the accounts, muttering about waste the whole time. In the back of his mind, Chuck suspected that the rules about candles were more Mr. Milbarge's than the Earl's.

Mr. Milbarge had left at seven as usual. Chuck was expected to work until everything was done, so it wasn't unusual for him to stay later than Mr. Milbarge. Now it was past eight o'clock, most of the house was quiet, and he was writing quickly, his eyes moving over the coded letter. He was trying to balance copying the letter as quickly as he could while ensuring he transcribed the code accurately. He had been hard at work for a half hour, each minute making him worry more about being discovered, yet he was nearly done.

Once he finished, he would hide the letter in his desk again. Tomorrow morning, he would slip it into the mail packet and hopefully no one would be the wiser for the letter's delay. And once he had done that, he would make up an excuse to visit the palace and pass along the information to Sarah.

Just the thought of her made him pause for a moment-a moment he could ill afford. With a frown, Chuck made himself focus on copying the last few lines of the letter. He couldn't let himself get lost in a daze when he was so close to being done.

When he wrote the last character, Chuck couldn't help giving it an extra flourish out of his relief. Without wasting any time, he hid the letter in his desk, gathered the copy of the letter and some other papers, and shoved it all in his pocket. After opening the curtains and blowing out the candle, he stepped out of the office, walking quietly through the halls of the Earl's house. Once he was out on the street, Chuck took a deep breath and headed towards the river.

There was no moon tonight and any visible stars were obscured by a layer of clouds. The air was thick with soot and the smell of the Thames, a potent fragrance that would normally make Chuck's nose curl. There was a damp mugginess that spoke to an approaching storm. Yet to Chuck, nothing had ever felt better than being out of the Earl's house and on his way home.

Not for the first time, Chuck hoped that the work of an intelligencer would become easier. At least some things had become less daunting after two weeks of work. He could now easily code his reports, even when he used multiple languages. Being observant without attracting attention was more challenging, but he felt he had improved. His reports were now full of real information-more wheat than chaff, he thought.

Yet he couldn't deny that one part of his secret life was no less taxing than it had been at the beginning: pretending to be in love with Lady Sarah Walker.

As he walked towards the river, looking for a ferryman to take him towards his lodgings in Cheapside, Chuck chided himself. It certainly wasn't taxing to spend time with Sarah. And creating the image of a proper romance with her was not difficult. No, the problem was that for Chuck, there was no pretense.

The more time he spent with Sarah, the more he liked her. It wasn't just about her beauty-he was intrigued by her spirit, by her intelligence, by her directness. He liked that she had ambitions, ones that went beyond acquiring a rich husband and having a high social position. In some ways, she reminded him of Eleanor, who loved being a midwife and healer for the village and wouldn't dream of giving that up even though she was now married.

But Sarah was still a mystery to him. He had read every word in her dossier multiple times, hoping to discover something real about her. All those readings, though, hadn't changed his initial impression: she was determined to hide her true self. She was very hesitant to reveal the facts about her past or her emotions and perspective on their current situation.

Logically, he understood her secrecy. They had been put into these roles for the sake of England, and once the mission was over, they might never meet again. He sensed that Sarah hoped to be a spy first and foremost, which would probably entail the need to be constantly on her guard. So not sharing anything but the most basic of personal details was exactly what a spy would need to do.

Chuck blew out a breath and stepped up to a ferry landing. With no boats waiting for customers, he rang the bell attached to the dock and waited for someone willing to transport him down the river towards Cheapside.

So he had to admit that his hopes of being a friend to Lady Sarah Walker were, in fact, hopeless. She didn't want a friend, let alone a lover. And if all she wanted from him was a fellow partner, then he would do his best to fulfill that role.

The arrival of a boat interrupted his thoughts. Climbing in carefully, he settled himself on the hard wooden bench. "Down river to St. Paul's, if you please."

The ferryman, a bear of a man, nodded silently and began pulling on the oars, smoothly rowing them out into the river. Even at just past nine o'clock, with twilight rapidly falling, there was plenty of light from the lanterns that swayed in the bow of each boat on the river. And the Thames was choked with traffic, ferry boats darting among larger ships and pleasure craft.

Gazing out at the scene, Chuck marveled at the display. All the activity was an illustration of London: busy, industrious, full of people. When he had arrived here, it had been overwhelming, almost frightening. Now, he took comfort in it, especially since he was also part of the bustling crowd.

He liked London. He hoped to stay here once his work for Sir Francis was completed. There was possibilities here, and he liked the thought of discovering just what he was capable of achieving. And if he could find a woman who might care for him . . .

And just like that, the image of Sarah popped into his mind.

It was all he could do not to grimace. He knew he had to put aside his feelings for her. He shouldn't even have such feelings in the first place. Her rank was much higher than his, since he was the son of a poor soldier and amateur scientist. It had been thanks to his father's years of service that upon his death, a small inheritance had come to Eleanor and Chuck. They should have split the funds, but Eleanor had insisted that Chuck use the entire inheritance to attend Cambridge. Unable to change her mind, Chuck had agreed, but silently vowed he'd repay Eleanor her share of the inheritance. With his current position, he would be able to do that-hopefully before the end of the spy mission.

Still, a lowly clerk with no fortune could not hope to marry a woman of Lady Sarah Walker's status. As the daughter of a knight and a maid of honour in the Queen's household, she would be seen as excellent marriage material for the son of a baron or viscount, or perhaps for a rich merchant hoping to rise socially.

And leaving aside the question of status, there was also the matter of compatibility. Although there were moments when he felt that Sarah found him interesting, those moments were outweighed by the times she was distant and reserved, when she tried to put space between them even when they were standing less than a hand's-breadth apart. If they had met under different circumstances, they might be friends. But right now . . . he didn't think she would let herself have a friend.

That didn't stop him from wishing that things could be different between them. That they had met normally, even if it meant he would have made a fool of himself. Because it would be something real, something honest. Maybe that way, Sarah might have been willing to let him in. But with their relationship being feigned for the spy mission, she seemed determined to stay distant except when they had to act like a man and woman in love. And at those times . . . it felt real.

Chuck swallowed. If he was honest with himself, it was quickly becoming real for him. He wasn't pretending to love Sarah; he knew he was on the verge of falling for her. As much as he had tried to warn himself, it didn't seem to help. He hoped for a moment when she looked at him and saw him, Chuck Carmichael-not some means to an end, not the avenue to her future as an intelligencer. And he wondered if she had felt anything when they had kissed-it may have only happened once, but it was an experience burned into his memory.

The bumping of the ferry against the landing made Chuck snap out of his thoughts. He handed over three pennies to the ferryman, then stepped out onto the dock and started walking towards his lodgings.

If his emotions wouldn't be restrained, Chuck would just have to learn to live with them. Although he wished Sarah might be willing to make their relationship more than a pretense, it didn't seem likely. So he would have to keep up appearances when necessary and otherwise try to keep his feelings to himself. He wasn't sure he could do that, but he would try. He'd learned long ago, thanks to his parents and his sister, that a true man had respect for others. And the best way he could show his respect towards Sarah was agreeing with her stated desire: pretend to have a relationship and work together to defeat England's enemies.

It was getting late. Hopefully Morgan, his best friend and now his manservant, had scrounged up something for their dinners. And after he ate, he would review the coded letter he had copied, trying to see if he could glean any insight into the cipher, before he prepared his own coded report for Sir Francis. If luck was on his side, he would be ready for bed by midnight. Chuck was hopeful that the company of his friend, some hot food, a little hard work and then an adequate bed would be enough to lift the sadness he felt.

Hopeful, but not optimistic.

XXX

"Lady Sarah, Lady Sarah!"

Mary's high-pitched voice cut through the din in the anteroom, filled with maids of honour awaiting the arrival of the Queen from her dressing-room. It was just before the Queen's afternoon audience with diplomats and Privy Councillors, and a selection of ladies-in-waiting were waiting to accompany the Queen into the audience room.

Sarah turned and moved through the crowd, seeing out of the corner of her eye that Catherine was following her. When she reached Mary, she pitched her voice low and did her best to hold back her annoyance. "Mary, it is not done to stand in the doorway of a room and shout another maid's name. What if the Queen had been present?"

Two spots of color appeared on Mary's cheeks, and she bobbed a quick curtsy. "I beg your pardon, Lady Sarah. Only I thought you'd like to know that one of the guards said that your Mr. Carmichael is waiting to see you."

"Appearing in the middle of the afternoon to see you? Cheeky," Catherine commented.

"How is it cheeky?" Mary asked, sounding entirely too curious.

"Well-" Catherine began before Sarah interrupted her.

"It's nothing of the sort. Mary, thank you for informing me of this. Since you are not accompanying the Queen today, might I ask you to relay a message to Mr. Carmichael?" Sarah had little doubt that Mary would agree; in the few days since she had met Chuck, Mary's attitude had changed from clear-headed practicality to soppy romanticism. It gave Sarah hope that their false romance was actually convincing, although Mary certainly did not possess the most probing mind.

Mary nodded eagerly. "Oh, yes, Lady Sarah! What message should I give Mr. Carmichael?"

"Please ask him to stay in the back of the audience chamber, and I will meet with him there as soon as I am able," Sarah said, ignoring how Catherine was poking her in her side.

"Yes, Lady Sarah," Mary said before turning and darting out of the room.

"The Queen's not going to notice a maid of honour missing-why don't you go meet 'your Mr. Carmichael' for a bit of fun?" Catherine asked, barely waiting until Mary was out of earshot.

"I disagree," Sarah said with a small grin. "The Queen might be advancing in age, but her eyes are still as sharp as ever. She would notice an uneven number of maids waiting on her. And if she doesn't, Lady Parry would."

Catherine clicked her tongue against her teeth. "I don't understand this friendship you have with Mr. Carmichael. It's as if you only like him some of the time. And he clearly worships the ground you walk on."

Sarah frowned slightly. "Is that how it seems?" Catherine was exactly the kind of person they needed to fool. If they weren't doing that, it could be extremely dangerous.

"Maybe I'm just looking too closely," Catherine conceded. "You never seem to lose your self-possession; I thought falling in love would do that to you."

"Losing my self-possession would be like losing myself. I don't think it's possible-or wise-for any woman to have so little control over her actions and emotions."

Her friend shook her head. "That's the point of falling in love, though. Losing yourself, if only for a short time. Look at me." Catherine grinned slightly, alluding to her well-known reputation as someone who frequently engaged in flirtations and more.

"Well, I'm not you," Sarah said with a small chuckle as Lady Parry led the Queen into the antechamber.

Catherine grinned at Sarah as they took their places and prepared for the audience. But Catherine's words prompted Sarah to ponder the current state of her relationship with Chuck.

It was true, she was attempting to keep her distance from him except when absolutely necessary. She had asked him not to visit her in the morning while she was taking her walk through the gardens unless it was an emergency. Instead, they met at various court functions. But since either one or both of them was expected to fulfill their duties at such events, they often only had a few minutes together. It was enough to exchange a few words, to pass a report back and forth, but not much more.

She licked her lips as the Queen stepped into the audience chamber, an ornate room designed to impress visiting ambassadors and dignitaries with the might of England and its queen. It was also small and crowded, the crush of people and the banks of candles producing heat that made the room uncomfortably warm. But due to the requirement to carry the stiletto knife at all times, she was suffering in her red dress, its long sleeves tight to her wrist.

Walking into the room, she felt the press of the crowd, the dozens of eyes on her. There were men of every description filling the room. Yet even with the crowd, it was easy to spot Chuck.

As she had requested, he was standing in the back of the room. He was wearing the same shabby black doublet, but today he had removed the sleeves, revealing the creamy sleeves of his linen shirt. It was certainly a less buttoned-up look for Chuck-and a flattering one.

Sarah gave herself a mental shake. If Catherine thought Sarah was not showing enough affection towards Chuck, it was a behavior that needed to be corrected. Not just when she was with Chuck, but when she was among the other ladies. She had spent years listening to maids chatter about their love affairs-she knew she could do that. But Sarah was less certain about flirting with Chuck.

There was something about him. Something about seeing his eyes light up when he saw her, or how his muscles tensed when she touched his arm or hand, or the way he smiled at her . . . it made her feel like she needed to run far, far away. That he was a hunter cornering his prey, preparing for the death strike. Which was utter foolishness; of all the men she had ever met, Chuck was the least likely to hunt.

While the Queen entertained the ambassadors and counselors, Sarah kept her face neutral, presenting an impression of rapt attention. But on the inside, she was debating just what to do.

Perhaps she just needed to spend more time with him in public. That would be a start towards dissuading any doubters, if they were seen enjoying each other's company. Today would be a good time to put this new plan into practice: shortly, the Queen would begin mingling among the gathered crowd, allowing Sarah the chance to speak with Chuck. Few of the powerful men present would care much about a couple-but Catherine would notice anything that happened between Sarah and Chuck.

Her mind resolved, Sarah waited for the end of the presentations and the Queen's rise from her throne, prompting all in the room to bow and curtsy before breaking into smaller groups. Released from her duties for the moment, Sarah headed towards Chuck. But she drew up short when the Spanish ambassador put himself in her path.

"Count Mendoza," she said, dropping into a brief curtsy.

"Lady Sarah," he said, his Spanish accent strong as he spoke. "Always the loveliest lady in the room."

Bernardino de Mendoza was little better than a meddler in Sir Francis's opinion. Even with the diplomatic privileges he was allowed, the Spanish ambassador was closely watched. As for Sarah herself, she found Count Mendoza's attention somewhat disturbing. His eyes rarely blinked when they fixed themselves on her face. She supposed she should be grateful that it was her face that attracted his attention and not her body.

"Only when the Queen is not in the room," she said, doing her best to smile.

He scoffed. "A pretty compliment, but a false one."

Sarah had no desire to pass conversation with Ambassador Mendoza at this moment. To extricate herself would require subtlety and tact. So she gave him another curtsy. "Excuse me, sir, yet I could not permit myself to monopolize your time."

The ambassador looked displeased but nodded. "Very well, Lady Sarah. Good day."

Feeling a sense of relief, Sarah turned towards the back of the room, where she had last seen Chuck. He was still there, holding a glass of wine-and talking to Catherine.

To her surprise, Sarah felt a vague stirring of disappointment. She shouldn't feel that way at all; if anything, she should feel somewhat worried about whether Chuck would be able to convince Catherine of the validity of their relationship. But she wasn't concerned about him doing that-she was doubtful that Catherine would leave him alone.

She drew closer, catching Catherine's last words.

"-shame that you're not more appreciated, Mr. Carmichael."

"What?" Chuck asked, before he noticed Sarah. "Lady Sarah!" His voice was slightly squeaky, but he quickly recovered. "Lady Catherine was kind enough to speak with me while I was waiting to see you."

"Yes, she's very kind," Sarah said, fixing Catherine with a steely gaze as she held her hand out to Chuck.

He quickly kissed her knuckles lightly, his beard brushing against her skin and making her hand tingle at the contact. Sarah took a deep breath but did not pull her hand out of his gentle hold. "Catherine, thank you for keeping Chuck company."

Her use of Chuck's nickname was instantly noted by Catherine; Sarah could tell by the way Catherine's eyebrow quirked. And Sarah knew that Catherine realized what was going on: Sarah was marking Chuck as hers. Sarah could only hope that Catherine would concede and withdraw.

"It was my pleasure," Catherine said in a silky voice. "Good day, Mr. Carmichael. Until later, Sarah." She gave him an elegant curtsy and Chuck quickly bowed.

"Thank you, Lady Catherine," he said, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

Catherine smirked at Sarah and melted away into the crowd, leaving her with a puzzled Chuck.

"What was going on?" Chuck asked, looking at her with a furrowed brow. "Did I do something wrong?"

Sarah shook her head. "No . . . just Catherine deciding to annoy me." She chose to not elaborate on her statement, her mind whirling with how to begin a conversation with him.

"Female friendships are so strange," he said, giving her a small smile. "Morgan and I don't act like that at all."

From his dossier, Sarah knew that Morgan had been his friend since childhood. "You're still friends, although he's now your manservant?"

Chuck looked surprised at her question, but nodded. "Yes. In fact, I think we're better friends now. He likes being helpful, but Morgan . . ." His voice trailed off and he hesitated for a moment. "He's had a hard time discovering what he should do with his life. After trying four different apprenticeships, and the masters asking him to leave each time, he was worried about how he was going to support himself and his mother. And I had just become part of the Earl's household, so it seemed like the perfect solution."

"Yes?" Sarah watched him as he talked about his best friend, marveling at the warmth in his voice.

"He needed a position, I had enough money to support having a manservant, and it saved me having to visit Eleanor anytime I needed mending or darning." Chuck lifted his free hand and stroked the trim that ran along the buttons of his doublet. "Morgan actually put this braid on my doublet."

"Indeed?" Sarah asked. She looked closer at the trim, then cocked her head. "And it hasn't fallen off yet?"

He gave her a sheepish smile. "That's why I'm without sleeves today-the trim on the cuffs came loose."

She chuckled softly and Chuck's eyes lit up. "I suppose he could use some improvement, but he's trying," Chuck said, his loyalty to his friend evident. "And he's enough of a friend that he wouldn't mind if this story made you laugh a little."

"Oh, no?" Sarah said, keeping a smile on her face. It was interesting how natural this felt. How easy he was to talk to, especially after all the walls she had put up. She didn't quite understand how she had so quickly dropped her barriers, but she knew it was necessary in order to protect their feigned romance.

"Morgan, like Eleanor, is very concerned about my love life. So when he realized that I must have met someone-although of course, he doesn't know much. Just that I met someone," Chuck said, his words tumbling out. In a reflexive action, he squeezed her hand, as if trying to reassure her.

"It's all right, Chuck," she said softly. "It's fine if Morgan knows."

Chuck looked at her hesitantly. "It is?" When she nodded, he relaxed. "Thank goodness. I was worried I might have gone too far when I confirmed his hunch."

Sarah took a step closer to him, the better to keep her voice low enough not to be overheard. That same scent of pine needles wafted over her, but she did her best to stay focused. "Actually, that was something I wanted to tell you-Catherine was questioning our relationship, so . . . so we'll need to be seen talking more."

Somehow, she couldn't find the words to explain the full conversation between herself and Catherine. It was too embarrassing, that she was the reason that Catherine was having trouble accepting the relationship. Hopefully, she had said enough to explain her actions now.

His eyes searched her face for a moment, then he cleared his throat. "That's fine with me, Sarah. Whatever's necessary."

"Good," she said, smiling quickly. Taking advantage of their closeness, she rested her free hand on his lower arm, playing with the edge of his linen shirt that peeked out at his wrist. It had become one of their signals, a way for her to ask if he had a report to pass along.

"You look very beautiful today," Chuck said, his voice low and soft.

Even though it was really an affirmative response to her unasked question, it always seemed like Chuck was telling her what he honestly thought when he said those words.

"Thank you," she said softly, looking up at him. She knew she had to convince people that she cared for Chuck. So even though she felt butterflies in her stomach, she let herself look deeply into his eyes.

He looked a bit surprised by her actions, but over the last fortnight Chuck had gotten very good at following her lead. So he held still, letting her look and returning her gaze, as his fingers lightly brushed over her own wrist.

Her mouth felt a bit dry. Sarah rubbed her tongue against her teeth, then spoke quietly. "I hope Catherine didn't say anything too embarrassing. She's very good at that."

"Embarrassing people?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow. "She must be, since you seemed a bit . . . flustered. And you're always so controlled."

Sarah felt her cheeks flush a little. She ducked her head slightly. "Catherine is perhaps my only friend at court, and even then, it's not what many people would call friendship."

"Why not?"

When she looked back up at him, his expression was gentle, open, attentive. It made her tongue loosen. "Because each of us is always prepared to be betrayed by the other."

"That's unfortunate," Chuck said. He hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Although you do have a friend at court." His eyes locked on hers, his meaning very clear.

It was amazing, the effect a few simple words could have on her. She hadn't expected to feel like this, like she had just gotten swept off her feet. And it hadn't taken charm and sweet words. No, it was the simple truth.

And it felt . . . nice. To have a friend, someone she knew she could trust without question. She had only known Chuck for a fortnight, but she did trust him-more than people she had known for years. It should make her question her feelings, but it didn't. It felt right.

A cool breeze brushing over her cheek made her look around the room. To her surprise, she realized that the room had emptied out and many of the candles had been extinguished. The Queen, in fact, was standing by the doorway to the anteroom, clearly ready to withdraw.

When she looked back at Chuck, his expression was rueful. "Time to go?"

"Yes," she said, nodding. But for appearance's sake, and to extract his report from his sleeve, she lingered for a moment. Her eyes focused on his chest, staring at his doublet. Almost unconsciously, she whispered, "I like the red one better."

"What was that?" he asked, turning his arm slightly so that she could more easily pull out the piece of paper.

"Oh," she said, feeling herself flush a little. She could feel his report crumpling in her hand as her fingers closed around it. "I-I said I like your other doublet better. The red one."

A wide smile bloomed on his face, complete with crinkles at the corners of his eyes. "Truly?"

Sarah nodded, wondering why she had ventured an opinion on his wardrobe.

"Then I'll wear it next time," he said, stepping back and bending over her hand. "Until then, Lady Sarah."

He lightly kissed her knuckles again-did his lips linger for a moment longer than normal?-and then straightened up. She curtsied, suddenly very eager to get some air, to achieve some balance. "Mr. Carmichael."

As she watched him cross the room towards the exit, she noted how his shoulders seemed straighter, like he was at his full height instead of crouching and hunching. There were moments when he was overflowing with confidence, and others when he wasn't. It was confusing and intriguing.

Yet she couldn't stand around here all day and ponder Chuck's personality. John Casey was one of the guards in the room, so this would be the perfect time to pass along Chuck's report. She glanced around, observing where Casey was positioned and who else was still in the room. She felt a twinge of distaste when she noticed Mendoza standing near the Queen. But pushing aside her own feelings, Sarah walked slowly around the room, trying to appear lost in thought. As she approached Mr. Casey, she stumbled slightly.

Just like clockwork, Casey reached out and cupped her elbow, steadying her. "Careful, Lady Sarah."

"Oh, thank you," she said, extending her free hand out and grasping his. Chuck's report, now folded into a small paper square in the palm of her hand, was passed to Casey just like that. "I don't know what came over me."

Lady Elizabeth appeared at Sarah's side. "Sarah, are you quite all right?"

Sarah pulled away from Casey, confident the transfer had not attracted any attention. "Yes, Elizabeth, thank you. A momentary dizzy spell-perhaps I stepped into a draft."

"Best to go into the anteroom, then," Casey said, his manner slightly bored.

"I'll take you, Sarah," Elizabeth said, resting an arm around her waist as support.

"Yes, thank you, Elizabeth. And thank you . . . " Sarah said, turning to look at Casey.

"Casey," he said gruffly.

"Thank you, Mr. Casey," she said. And then she let Elizabeth help her towards the anteroom.

End, Chapter 2


	4. Chapter 3

**Ready ****at ****Your ****Hand****, ****Chapter**** 3 (4/10)**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: In the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, a Catholic plot against the queen comes to the attention of spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham. To protect Elizabeth, he develops an unusual plan: hide the passing of intelligence between two agents by a false romance. When Lady Sarah Walker and Chuck Carmichael meet, though, their pretend flirtation becomes much more.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author****'****s ****Note**: Many thanks to Steampunk . Chuckster for all her help with this chapter. She helped me improve this chapter so much. Also, this chapter is a looong one, so settle in!

XXX

"Knowledge is never too dear."

Sir Francis Walsingham

XXX

Walking around in a daze wasn't the smartest way to move through London, but Chuck couldn't seem to help it. For all he knew, he floated back to Cheapside. Because he didn't pay attention to his surroundings or the people he moved past in the streets; his mind was completely focused on something much more pleasant.

All he could seem to think about was Sarah. Deliberating over tonight's progress in becoming her friend. Hoping to understand her, trying to put her at ease and not overstep the boundaries she had raised. If he could think sensibly he'd make himself calm down, work to end his infatuation with her every word and glance, but he couldn't.

He had resolved to let Sarah control their relationship, the one underneath the image they were creating for everyone at court. And when he had made that decision, he knew it would be difficult to not get carried away. Yet today, although Sarah had said they needed to be seen talking by everyone else . . . he got the feeling that something had changed between the two of them over the course of their conversation. Maybe it was talking about something other than the mission or possibly it could be his statement that Chuck was her friend. Perhaps it was as simple as Sarah saying she liked his other doublet-she had it quietly, almost as if it had slipped out without her realization. And such a revelation might mean that deep down, Sarah might, just might, have friendly feelings for him.

Realizing that made him feel a glimmer of hope. He couldn't fool himself into thinking that Sarah might feel more than friendship for him: a too-tall man with no fortune and no prospects. Especially a man who wanted a simple life, a life that would be much too small for a woman like her.

But to be Lady Sarah Walker's friend . . . that would be enough to satisfy him. It had to be, he told himself firmly, even as his heart compiled dozens of reasons to hope for more. Bryce had never understood why he didn't reach for the moon. "You can do anything you set your mind to, Chuck!" he had said once, over their cups in one of Cambridge's public houses. "Why are you so scared to risk it all?"

For someone like Bryce, with money and connections and a family name to protect him, taking risks wasn't nearly as intimidating as it was for Chuck. If Chuck failed, he'd become a burden on Eleanor and Devon, just when they were beginning their marriage. After using their family's inheritance to go to university, Chuck couldn't afford to risk his future. He had to be conservative, find some work that was steady and sensible, and save his pennies until he could repay Eleanor. After that, he could live his life for himself.

That was what he always thought, at least. But now that he had met Sarah, he was questioning his plans. He was young, healthy, well-educated . . . should he put off his future like that, for the illusion of safety? Especially when being safe meant that other people might suffer? What did his own personal happiness matter when any minute, the Queen could be assassinated and the government toppled? And if he took these risks, tried to reach for the moon like Bryce had always told him, maybe someday he might be worthy of someone like Sarah.

Lost in his thoughts, Chuck walked through the narrow streets towards Cheapside. He needed to come back to terra firma. If he went into his room and acted dazed and lovesick, Morgan would immediately know that something had happened. He would put two and two together. And although his friend had a genius for doing that and getting twenty-seven instead of four, Chuck sensed that in this instance, Morgan would guess correctly.

It was just so easy to get distracted when he thought about Sarah. Her pale, smooth skin. Her eyes the color of the summer sky-light and clear when she was amused, dark and stormy when she was annoyed. The blonde hair, so inviting that his fingers itched to run through it. Even things like her elegant fingers and the slenderness of her neck caught his attention. The last thing she deserved was having someone like him mooning over her. But he couldn't seem to help himself. She captivated him and Chuck knew that for the rest of his life, female beauty would mean a blue-eyed blonde, instead of the dark-eyed brunettes he once found attractive.

Suddenly, his feet felt cold and wet. Looking down, Chuck realized that he had walked into a puddle of indeterminate liquid. And just like that, he was back on Earth.

Chuck grinned sheepishly to himself. Eleanor had always scolded him for letting his head lost in the clouds. Now he had paid for his daydreaming. He just hoped that it was water that dampened his shoes and hose, instead of the other liquids that puddled in London's streets.

Moving through the meandering crowd, Chuck soon arrived at his boarding house. He climbed the four flights of stairs towards his room, which was at the back of the house and commanded a few small windows overlooking a scrubby yard. The accommodations weren't lavish, but they were fairly clean, the landlady changed the sheets every fortnight in a remarkable example of tidiness, and it only cost five shillings a week, plus a shilling and sixpence for meals in the kitchen on the ground floor.

When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, he immediately kicked off his shoes and sighed unhappily at the holes in his stockings. "Morgan, sorry, but I stepped in something on the way back . . ."

Looking up, Chuck saw his friend and erstwhile manservant fighting with a needle, thread, and the sleeves to Chuck's black doublet. "Morgan?"

"Yeah, Chuck?" he asked, looking up with guileless blue eyes-the same eyes that had gotten Chuck into countless scrapes during their childhood. Standing more than a head shorter than Chuck, Morgan had relied on his innocent face and his full beard by the age of fourteen to get him out of trouble. And when that hadn't worked, he'd find Chuck.

"Why is there thread everywhere?" Chuck asked, cautiously taking a step into the room and attempting to avoid the rough black threads that were strung from the bed to the desk to the chair Morgan was sitting in.

"Funny you should ask, Chuck-it's a great story, one I'll explain in full, but you said you stepped in something?"

Somehow, Morgan was able to stand up, set aside the sleeves, and move around the threads floating in the air without getting caught. Chuck, who had no such hope of doing the same without causing catastrophe, stayed where he was. "Yeah, a puddle. I think these hose are done for. How much money is left?"

Chuck had been living off his savings since he arrived in London; he wouldn't receive the first quarter of his salary from the Earl until the middle of July. As a result, he had been careful with his funds, making do with the clothing he had brought with him and resisting the urge to visit bookshops. Morgan had helped by picking up odd jobs, yet Chuck knew that until his first quarter's salary was in his hand, all three pounds and fifteen shillings of it, they would have to live close to the bone.

"Ah, well, that's an interesting question . . ."

At Morgan's hesitation, Chuck felt a cold shiver. "Morgan . . ." he said slowly, narrowing his eyes.

"We have enough for next week's bed and board with a few pennies left over," Morgan blurted out.

"We had fifteen shillings last week after I paid Mrs. Beckman!" Chuck said, referring to their landlady. "That would have been enough for two weeks' worth of lodgings, and two shillings left over!"

"I know I'm not good at arithmetic, Chuck, but even I could have figured that out," Morgan said indignantly.

Chuck blew out a breath. "What happened?"

Morgan sighed and began unwinding the thread from around the furniture. "There was this peddler at the market the other day . . . he said if I bought this thread, it would never snarl, never knot, and it would last for decades. So of course, it was worth a premium price." He sighed. "Four shillings and sixpence for the thread, and then a shilling for the special needle, plus the money for the new trim . . ."

"Leaving us short for the last week of rent before I get paid," Chuck said, drawing out the chair by his desk and sitting down.

"I'll make some extra money, Chuck, I swear. That butcher down the street, I could do some work for him. He doesn't have to know I never finished my apprenticeship. Or the baker in the next street-I'm sure I still have my talent at making a nice, light loaf of manchet."

He ran a hand through his hair. "It's all right, Morgan." He tried to smile at his best friend. "If we can't pay rent, I'll just visit the pawnbroker and see what he would give me for my father's sword."

"Oh, Chuck, are you sure? It's all you have left of your father . . ."

"We have to have someplace to stay, Morgan," Chuck said. "And it wouldn't be right to not pay Mrs. Beckman promptly." He paused, frowning. "And if we were even an hour late, I suspect she would come in here and throw us out on the street. Through the windows."

Morgan snorted. "She'd just have to look at me and I'd throw myself out the window. But yeah. I really will try, Chuck."

"I know you will, friend." Chuck leaned back in his chair. "I was having such a good day."

His friend immediately cheered up. "You were? Was it because of that girl who you won't tell me anything about, in spite of me being your oldest friend?"

Chuck laughed quietly. "Yes, Morgan, it was. And her name is Sarah."

"Sarah, eh? What a nice, Biblical name."

"And what does that mean?" Chuck asked, pinning his friend with a look. There had been a bit of a leer in Morgan's voice, something that Chuck didn't like to hear.

"Nothing, nothing! It's a nice name. Is she pretty? What's she like? When can I meet her?"

Although Sarah had said it was all right for Morgan to know about her, Chuck still paused. Given that he had met Sarah because of the spy mission, should he tell Morgan that much about her? What would happen when their assignment was done-how would he explain to Morgan why Sarah wasn't in his life anymore, since he couldn't tell Morgan the truth?

On the other hand, Morgan would give him no peace if Chuck didn't share something about Sarah. And it would be nice to have someone to talk to about her. Someone with whom Chuck could share his feelings without worrying about the mission.

"Let me change my stockings, and then we'll go downstairs for some food and I'll tell you more about her," Chuck said, smiling at Morgan.

His friend smiled brightly at him. "Good idea, Chuck!" Morgan hopped up, chattering away about his progress on mending Chuck's doublet sleeves and all the neighborhood gossip as Chuck changed.

It would be good to get a different perspective on Sarah, Chuck thought. Of course, there was much he would have to leave out of his story, but talking about Sarah with his best friend was a golden opportunity. Besides, Morgan had always expressed complete and utter belief in him. Chuck didn't quite understand it, but even more than Eleanor, Morgan thought Chuck could do anything. And right now, Chuck thought he could use a little extra self-confidence.

XXX

Even after four years at court, seeing the panoply of wealth and excess every day, there were moments that still could shake Sarah to her core. Times when her senses were so overwhelmed that she well understood why the Queen was known as Gloriana.

This was one of those times.

In the corner of the room, a group of musicians were performing madrigals and lute songs. Small round tables were scattered around the room, each table hosting a different game of cards, chess, or backgammon. The queen herself was playing chess against Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, teasing her 'sweet Robin' after his false moves and mistakes.

There were beautifully-dressed ladies and lords, the light glinting off gold embroidery and flashing off jewels. The clashing sweetness of different perfumes fought with the vases of roses in the corners of the room. Serving as a counterpoint to the music were the dozens of conversations, quiet and muted except for occasional laughter or applause.

She was surrounded by luxury and beauty, by the most important people in England. There was a deadly weapon hidden in the sleeve of her dress, a dress that let her fit in among all these courtiers. This was the center of the world for courtiers and fortune-hunters, servants and lords, assassins and criminals. Anyone who was not here might wish that they were, if they knew such a gathering existed.

Yet Sarah wished she could be elsewhere. Out in the garden, feeling cool air on her skin-for once, not worrying that the sunlight would tan her skin. Hearing birds sing and smelling gentle floral perfumes, instead of this din and clatter and all these conflicting odors. She wished she could be somewhere she could collect her thoughts and think about the future she wanted above all else.

Holding back a sigh, Sarah moved away from the window and slowly walked around the room. She glanced around, her eyes sweeping over the throng for any sign of disturbance. There was a sense that someone was missing, but Sarah dismissed that feeling. She had always been content being alone and she prided herself on not needing anyone to keep her company. There wasn't anyone-anything-missing from her life.

Lady Elizabeth, the maid of honour responsible for standing at the ready by the Queen, nodded to Sarah, reminding her that it was time for their positions to reverse. She nodded in return and gracefully maneuvered through the crowd, grateful to avoid Ambassador Mendoza.

Sarah performed a low curtsy to the Queen. "Your Majesty."

"Ah, yes, Lady Sarah," the Queen said, slightly inclining her head. "Has your evening been pleasant?"

"Any evening spent in your company is more than pleasant, Your Majesty."

The Earl of Leicester chuckled. "Maybe it is Lady Sarah who should replace Lord Cobham as Your Majesty's ambassador in France, negotiating with King Henri."

"Lady Sarah would certainly accomplish more than any man," the Queen remarked as she moved one of her knights. Sarah felt a spark of pleasure at the monarch's compliment.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

The Queen eyed Sarah speculatively. "You would like that, wouldn't you? Besting a group of stupid Frenchmen, being part of a man's world."

It took Sarah a moment to prepare her answer. Queen Elizabeth, although a female herself, was notorious about enforcing the rules that kept women in their God-ordained positions. As royalty, the same rules did not apply to Elizabeth that applied to Sarah, so her reply needed to strike a delicate balance.

"I am most content in my current position," Sarah said. "Of course, I would not shirk any duty assigned to me by Your Majesty. And although I do agree with Your Majesty's opinion of my abilities, I doubt that King Henri or his advisors would."

Elizabeth pursed her lips, then shook her head. "If we had any question of your loyalty, Lady Sarah, your craftiness and your ambition would make us worry for our throne."

Sarah nibbled on her lower lip for a moment before she replied. "If I have spoken too freely, Your Majesty, I apologize. You need fear nothing from me."

The Queen waved her hand in the air, batting aside Sarah's words. "No apology is necessary, Lady Sarah. Although it seems likely that your services will be lost to us shortly." She arched one of her thin eyebrows. "Lady Blanche commented that you seem to have found a young man."

Was it strange that Sarah immediately felt a sense of triumph? If Lady Blanche, the woman who had the Queen's ear, was talking about Chuck and Sarah, it meant they were convincing the court about their relationship. And now that the Queen was asking her questions about Chuck . . .

She curtsied again. "I do not plan to leave your service at this time, Your Majesty. It is true that I recently became acquainted with a member of the Earl of Lincoln's household."

"Indeed?" There was that quirked eyebrow again.

"Yes, Your Majesty. Mr. Carmichael is one of the Earl's clerks. He has excellent prospects."

The Earl of Leicester spoke as he considered his next move. "Carmichael, you said? Never heard of him."

"He's new to Court, my lord." Sarah hoped her voice didn't reveal the nerves that were starting to flutter in her stomach at these questions.

Was it her imagination, or did the Queen and the Earl exchange meaningful glances? As if they were silently plotting something-something that was likely to cause embarrassment or discomfort for her and Chuck, given the reputations of the Queen and her favorite courtier.

The last thing she wanted to face was sharing an uncomfortable situation with Chuck. More uncomfortable than the one they already found themselves in, that is. How could she deflect the Queen's interest? Should she babble on, like other maids did when talking about their romances? No, that would be very foolish-she couldn't do that in front of the Queen. Not when her Majesty did not like when her maids got married and left the household, even though it was expected that most women would marry. Perhaps she should again reassure the Queen that she wasn't about to leave.

"Does Mr. Carmichael know how to dance, Lady Sarah?"

The Queen's question interrupted her thoughts. "Excuse me, Your Majesty?" she asked in confusion.

"We will withhold judgment on this mysterious Mr. Carmichael until we see him dance," the monarch said, sounding somewhat amused. "With you, Lady Sarah."

"Me, Your Majesty?" Sarah asked, feeling completely flummoxed. "That is, of course he would wish to dance with me, although I do not know if Mr. Carmichael has much experience with dancing . . ."

"It has long been suspected that love makes even the clumsiest among us ready to dance," the Queen remarked, glancing at Sarah before frowning at the chess board. "Robin, that move was quite out-of-bounds."

"Because it means I might win?" Dudley asked, grinning at the Queen.

She lightly rapped the back of his hand with her fan, then looked at Sarah. "Tell Mr. Carmichael that his monarch commands him to dance with you, at the banquet this Saturday."

Only four days away! Sarah felt her heart sink. "Yes, Your Majesty," she replied meekly.

"At least let the poor girl know what kind of dance to teach the young man," the Earl said with a chuckle.

Queen Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. "Very well-a volta." The Queen, very deliberately, did not look at Sarah, staying focused on the chessboard. Then she quickly moved her bishop. "Check, Robin."

If Sarah had not been talking to the Queen, she would have groaned. The Queen would request that dance, the still-scandalous one that she had famously performed with the Earl of Leicester at her coronation banquet. "Yes, Your Majesty. I hope our performance will be pleasing to you."

"More pleasing than this game," the Earl commented sourly as he tipped over his king. "I resign, Your Majesty."

The Queen clapped her hands and smiled. "An excellent game. Someday you might beat me, Robin."

The Earl of Leicester rose and bowed, then kissed the queen's hand. "Perhaps, Your Majesty, but it would be only through some strange quirk of luck."

She laughed and used her grip on the Earl's hand to arise. "Lady Sarah, we have no further need of you. Speaking of luck, the best of it to you and your young man."

Sarah curtsied. "Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you."

As the Queen and the Earl moved around the room, talking with various courtiers, Sarah stepped back towards the wall, needing a few moments to contemplate this turn of events.

There was little chance that Chuck knew how to dance. As a young man of limited means and no real social standing, he did not not have the nobility's training in the graceful arts. Although Sarah knew she was a very good dancer, and had helped other maids improve through her instruction, she doubted whether she could teach someone all the skills of dancing in just a few days. And dancing a volta . . .

She felt her cheeks grow warm and hoped, in the dim lighting of the room, that it was not very noticeable. The volta involved a man holding a woman in his arms, performing a turn while lifting her off her feet. To dance like that with Chuck, the side of her body would be pressed against his-she would be dependent on him to hold her in the air, to lead her through the steps.

How would he handle it? How would she? And whatever their reactions, they would have to remember that they were putting on a show for the whole court and the Queen herself.

A sense of panic washed over her, mingling with anger. This all seemed so different from what she imagined being a spy would be like. She had pictured observing an alleged traitor and making notes for a spymaster, or disguising herself as a washerwoman in order to infiltrate a plotter's secret base. But this, having to pretend to have feelings for some man who was getting to do the real spy work, the work that she wanted to perform . . . it wasn't fair.

Of course it wasn't fair, she reminded herself. As a woman, she would always be overlooked, always be seen as less than any man, in spite of the intelligence and skills she possessed. This was the world she lived in. For a moment, the stiletto in her sleeve felt more like a burden. Protecting the Queen was a noble goal, one that she was determined to carry out. Yet it felt more and more like it was a sop to her vanity-that the real reason Sir Francis had sought her out was for this ludicrous romance angle.

Looking down at her hands, Sarah realized that she was gripping the handle of the stiletto through the fabric of her dress. Taking a few deep breaths, she made herself rest her arms at her sides as she tried to achieve a level of calm.

If she wanted to be an actual spy, she needed to keep her emotions under control at all times. It had only been two weeks, yet it felt like she had slipped a hundred times, revealing too much by her words and actions and expressions. Perhaps that was what she was meant to learn with this assignment: being an intelligencer was more difficult and more complicated than she had ever realized. Her training had taught her basic skills, but now she needed actual experience to complement her education. But she was determined to learn all those lessons, everything that she needed in order to leave England and protect all that her country held dear.

Guarding the Queen's life and delivering Chuck's reports, although tasks that took up an amount of time unequal to their importance, were the tasks she had been assigned. That was what she needed to remember. Yes, it was disconcerting to find herself more interested in Chuck than she thought and flustered by his physical effect on her. Because it would be foolish to deny that there was something about him that made her body react. But just like she mastered languages or knife skills, she could master her body.

She had never met a man who sparked such reactions from her body as Chuck did. And that was all they were-physical reactions, an easily-conquered attraction to a quirkily handsome man. There was nothing more to it, other than a mild sense of friendship with him. She would play the game and bury anything she felt. Teaching Chuck how to dance would be a good test for herself.

Straightening her shoulders, Sarah moved slowly around the room, watching the Queen as she contemplated how to instruct Chuck. She would need assistance, someone to play music while she danced with Chuck. For a moment, she contemplated asking a few ladies to help, since word was bound to get out about the Queen's command, and having several maids present would increase the gossip about their relationship. But it was unlikely that insecure Chuck would be able to learn the dance under such conditions, so she discarded the idea.

As she passed John Casey, he coughed quietly. Sarah paused in her circuit of the room, knowing from his signal that Casey had information to give her. When a servant walked past her with an empty tray, she saw her chance. She turned suddenly, sending the servant and his tray to the floor.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she said, bending down. Casey stepped forward to help the servant up. Sarah picked up the tray and held it out to the young man with a smile. "Excuse me."

The servant blinked, then flushed. "It-it was my fault, mistress-I-I didn't look where I was going."

Casey grunted. "Watch where you're going, then."

"Yes, sir!" The servant turned and scurried away. Casey turned to Sarah and held his hand out to her.

"Thank you," Sarah said, placing her hand in his and getting to her feet. She removed her hand, taking the paper from his palm before nodding to him and continuing her walk around the room.

It would be expected that Sarah would send letters to Chuck, so sending along Sir Francis's note inside her own would not attract any undue suspicion. And besides, she needed to tell Chuck that he had a dance lesson tomorrow.

When the party began breaking up, Sarah searched the room and found Catherine. She drew close to her fellow maid and spoke quietly. "Catherine? I have a favor to ask of you."

XXX

The next morning dawned clear and cool. The sun had just started rising when Sarah and Catherine stepped into a small room on the ground floor of the palace, in a wing that saw little use by the court at this time of day. While Catherine sat down on a slightly-dusty chair and began tuning her lute, Sarah drew back the heavy curtains over the windows. The room grew brighter from the natural light pouring in through the east-facing windows.

"Do you think there's enough light?" Sarah asked, looking around the room.

Catherine looked up and nodded, then yawned. "Lord, Sarah, why must we do this so early?"

"Because this is the only time Chuck can come to the palace and not be missed," she explained shortly. "I told you that."

"I'd much rather do this at midnight," Catherine said, a touch grumpily. "He could sneak in and then spend the night in our room." She waggled her eyebrows. "I wouldn't mind sharing a bed with him."

Sarah frowned. She knew what she should say to Catherine's teasing remark, how she should stake her claim to Chuck and squash Catherine's interest. The troubling fact was how her instinctual reaction was so similar to what she should say to preserve their relationship's appearance.

"Chuck is off-limits, Catherine. I mean it."

"Fine, fine," Catherine said with another yawn. "Chuckles is all yours."

"And please don't call him that," Sarah said absent-mindedly, looking around the room as she went over dance steps in her head.

"Anyone who thought you'd get silly and happy when you fell in love doesn't know you at all," Catherine said sarcastically.

Ignoring Catherine's griping, Sarah performed a few steps, lightly stepping back and forth as she hummed softly. She had kept the dance she was creating as simple as possible, hoping that Chuck's apparent love of music would help him in learning the steps.

Catherine began playing, seamlessly matching Sarah's steps. Sarah skipped and curtsied, her skirts whirling around her and her ruff bouncing. She laughed softly. For just a moment, she let herself enjoy dancing instead of thinking about her feelings and her future.

As she turned again, she caught sight of Chuck and came to a stop. She smoothed a hand over her hair and greeted him. "Good day, Chuck."

"Hello," he said, sounding somewhat dazed. "You're going to teach me to do that?"

"Since the Queen has commanded it, yes," Sarah said. "So you haven't ever taken dancing lessons?"

Chuck shook his head. "No . . . I mean, I have danced, at the village fair and on May Day, but nothing so-so precise." He paused, then smiled sheepishly. "You looked like a bird. Flying around the room . . ."

His compliment made her breath catch for a moment. How did he always find a way to knock her off balance?

"Awww," Catherine said. "Don't mind me, I'm just the musician."

With a grin, Chuck bowed to Catherine. "And an excellent one, too. Thank you for your help, Lady Catherine."

Catherine winked at Chuck and then looked at Sarah. "Where do you want to start, Sarah?"

Swallowing, Sarah attempted to keep her voice even and natural-sounding. "I thought it was best to start with the basics of the gaillard. Then we'll handle the volta steps. You will be able to come here each morning, and then for the banquet?"

"Mr. Milbarge wasn't very happy about it, but yes," Chuck said.

"Good," Sarah said. "Let's start with you watching me, Chuck, and then I'll start teaching you your steps."

He cleared his throat. "All right." He looked around, but since there were no more chairs, he could only stand.

Sarah looked over at Catherine and nodded. Catherine struck up a jaunty tune and Sarah began the opening of the galliard, moving in a circle in time with the music. She pointed her toe, then hopped back and forth from one foot to another before traveling across the floor in a crossing pattern.

It was slightly embarrassing to do this alone, with Chuck watching, yet she pushed aside her discomfort in order to execute the steps as perfectly as she could. She drew to a halt once she reached the end of the first section of the dance. "That's the opening galliard. Let's see how you can do."

Chuck swallowed. "All right."

"To make it easier, you're just going to mirror me for most of the dance. For each measure of music, there are five steps. Right, left, right, left, cadence." Sarah demonstrated, moving lightly back and forth and then jumping in the air and ending with her right foot in front of her left.

"The cadence is a jump?" Chuck asked, his brow furrowed.

"Yes-some kind of jump or hop," Sarah replied. "Usually, you'll do the five steps, and then you repeat them, just changing what foot you start on."

"That-that sounds easy enough," Chuck said, rubbing his hands against his trunk hose.

Sarah did her best to give him an encouraging smile. "Let's see how you do. We'll practice the same steps until you have mastered it, then we'll move on to the next group of steps." With a nod to Catherine, the music started up. Sarah focused on Chuck as she began to dance.

He watched her for one measure, then started dancing. She could see him working hard, his cheeks flushing when he stumbled. But at least he had some sense of musicality; he was able to stay on the beat and knew when to move.

After he had completed the steps correctly twice in a row, Sarah stopped. "Good. Let's move on to the next set of steps."

"How many sets will I need to learn?" Chuck asked, breathing a bit heavier than normal.

"There's six of them in the dance," Sarah said. "That was the least I thought we could get away with. And of course, the volta."

"What is the volta?" Chuck asked curiously. "You keep mentioning it."

Catherine snickered softly. Sarah gave her a look and turned back to Chuck. "One step at a time, Chuck. We'll try it at the end of the lesson. Now, the next set."

Not really waiting for Catherine, Sarah started dancing. Chuck joined her quickly but stumbled more often. It took him quite a few measures to calm down and learn this set. As they kept dancing, Sarah found herself realizing that he wasn't a bad dancer. He wasn't very smooth-his cadences were still jerky and sudden, not fully in time with the music. But he seemed to have a good memory, which would help.

By the time the clock outside the room struck nine, they had practiced each set of steps multiple times, until Chuck had mastered them. Sarah paused, feeling slightly winded. They had been hard at work for over an hour and Chuck looked like he was ready to collapse.

"I'm not used to this," he wheezed quietly.

"Not much for sport?" Catherine asked, the studied innocence of her tone causing her remark to sound even more innuendo-laden.

His already flushed face grew even redder. "Um, well . . ."

"Enough, Catherine," Sarah said sharply. She had already had enough of Catherine's sly remarks. Normally they did not bother her, but today her flirtatious comments were less funny and more annoying.

Catherine frowned at Sarah, her eyes registering hurt for a split second before she descended into a sulky silence.

"We'll make a first attempt at the volta before you go, Chuck," Sarah said, feeling a stab of guilt at Catherine's reaction. She would have to apologize later.

Chuck straightened up and nodded. "How does it go?"

Sarah stepped towards him. "Put your hands on my waist."

"What?" he said, his voice rising slightly as he blinked.

"Face that way," Sarah said, pointing towards the windows. She positioned herself perpendicularly to him, facing Catherine and the wall, with her right side positioned near his left hip. She reached out and took his hands, putting his left hand on her waist and his right hand on her left hip. "The volta is done in a closed position."

"C-closed position?" he said, barely touching her.

"Yes. Closed meaning the dancers' bodies are touching." She had to focus on what she was teaching him. Not on the warmth coming off his body now that they were so close, not on that blasted pine scent that made her want to lean in and sniff him.

She rested her right hand on his left shoulder, having to reach up more than she ever had with another man. Not that she had danced the volta more than twice. When she spoke, her voice was quieter than she expected. "We start by hopping forward onto our outside feet while lifting up the inside one. On the count of three."

Under her hand, she could feel him tense up. She counted, and on three they managed to move to the outside foot and raise their inside feet, without becoming tangled up and falling to the floor.

"Good," she said, licking her lips. "Now, we slide into a step and end on our inside feet, and I get ready to spring up into the air. When that happens, you lift me up and turn us, three-quarters around, while holding me for three beats of the music. You might need to use your left thigh to hold me up."

Why hadn't she realized just how intimate this dance was? And how had she missed that she would have to rely on him to keep her in the air without dropping her or stumbling? She had never worried about that before when dancing the volta, but suddenly it was all she could think of.

"Oh," he said softly. "Um, I guess I need to hold you tighter?"

"Yes," she said, feeling the air whoosh out of her when his hold on her became firm. "On three again."

"On three," he said. Was his voice a bit deeper now or was it her heart thudding that interfered with her hearing?

Together, they moved into the step onto their inside feet. Using his shoulder, she pushed up into the air and nearly gasped as he held her up and began to turn. She could hear him humming, his voice slightly strained, as he turned. She did her best to hold herself up and to her surprise, Chuck almost did not need to use his leg to support her. When he reached the end of the turn, she eased her grip on his shoulder and Chuck helped to set her on her feet.

Sarah stared at him, her eyes wide. He looked surprised, but not nearly as shocked as she felt. How had they done that? They shouldn't have been able to do such a passable volta on their first try. The sound of Catherine's voice snapped her out of her daze.

"That actually looked good," Catherine said, sounding impressed.

"Really?" Chuck asked, his face lighting up. "It felt all right . . ."

"You practice a few times more, you won't have to worry about the Queen," Catherine said with a grin. "Sarah, you must be a miracle worker. I'd never have guessed you were such a good teacher."

"What?" she said, before she realized that her hand was still on Chuck's shoulder and their bodies were even closer than before. She quickly stepped back and straightened her skirts. "Um, yes, that went well."

If she looked at him, she might do something she would regret. Something that went against everything she was trying to do with this assignment, something that could give him the wrong sign. So she looked over at Catherine. "I think the clock struck nine. We probably need to prepare for today's duties."

Catherine raised an eyebrow but stood up. Chuck turned and bowed towards her. "Thank you for your help, Lady Catherine."

"You're very welcome, Mr. Carmichael," Catherine said as she curtsied, her voice sweet and almost simpering.

Sarah took Catherine's arm. "Until tomorrow, Chuck," she said, ushering Catherine out of the room and heading towards the other wing of the palace at a fast pace.

"Sarah!" Catherine hissed. "What is wrong with you? I'd be all over a man who danced like that with me!"

"I'm not you," Sarah snapped. "We're going to be late."

Her friend yanked her arm out of Sarah's grasp. "I don't know what is going on with you, Sarah."

Swallowing, Sarah looked at Catherine. At this moment, she felt so overwhelmed that she didn't know what to do. It was like her whole body was vibrating while her mind struggled between two different paths. But she couldn't let her weak body take over her strong mind. She had to master herself. Get herself under control and find some kind of explanation for her actions.

"I . . ." she said, her voice trailing off as she tried to formulate something to reassure Catherine. Then she shook her head. "I don't know how to talk about this, Catherine."

"You never talk," Catherine said, rolling her eyes. "But you need to find a way, because otherwise you're going to do something foolish like run off with him."

"I wouldn't do that!" Sarah protested.

Catherine quirked an eyebrow. "So you're not tempted to spend more time with him? With how he looks at you and how you managed to dance a volta together and how your eyes become as green as mine when I say something nice to Chuck?"

Sarah licked her lips. All she wanted was to ignore the warmth that she felt whenever she thought about Chuck and forget how her body reacted to his. But Catherine wouldn't let her, and for the sake of the relationship, she couldn't ignore what her friend was saying.

"I-I've never felt like this," Sarah said quietly, hoping her expression was shy and didn't reveal her manipulation and her deception. Although she was speaking the truth; she had never experienced such feelings before. "I just need a few days to-to find the right words."

Catherine eyed her warily. "A few days?"

Sarah nodded. "By Sunday, I swear."

That would be after the banquet, so she would have time to recover from that experience. Catherine was confused because Sarah hadn't acted like every other maid did when she first fell in love. She had stayed clammed up, giving in to her instinct to ignore her emotions when she wasn't with Chuck amid dozens of people. So she had to crush that instinct and be logical. And logically, a woman in love did not want to escape from her lover.

"It's . . . it's very confusing, how Chuck makes me feel," she said slowly. "So I just need time to be able to talk about it."

"All right," Catherine said, pausing at the doorway to their room. "But be careful. You don't want to mess this up, Sarah."

It was unusual, to say the least, to have Catherine give her advice like this. Real, serious advice and not the teasing kind. Sarah tilted her head to one side. "Why not?"

"Because that man is clearly in love with you, Sarah."

Catherine swept into their room, leaving Sarah alone in the hallway. She nibbled on her lower lip, looking down at the floor. She knew that Catherine was right. Chuck showed all the signs of a man in love. And with his inexperience, his naïveté . . . Sarah knew he wasn't acting. He really did care for her.

And that thought made her want to crawl into her bed and pull the covers over her head. But it would be hours before she could do that, so Sarah made herself open the door to the room she shared with Catherine and prepare for her day.

XXX

His calves ached. There was a small bruise on his left shoulder. And last night, he had a nightmare featuring strange creatures playing a galliard non-stop while he danced over hot coals.

Yet none of that mattered, because tomorrow night he would dance with Lady Sarah Walker in front of Queen Elizabeth herself, in the truest test so far of the relationship they had constructed.

But he had already failed that test. Because the challenge was to fool the court into thinking he and Sarah were in love when they really weren't. And while Sarah passed the test, he didn't. Because he was in love with her.

He, Charles Carmichael, was madly in love with a woman who didn't love him back, who would never let herself love him. Whether because of her ambition or his social standing or simply a lack of interest on her part, Sarah didn't seem to want a real romance with him.

It was enough to break his heart. At night, when he was alone in his bed and Morgan was snoring softly beside him, it was all he could do not to give in to the despair that threatened him whenever he considered Sarah. The way her eyes had widened in surprise after they had done that volta, how her cheeks flushed and her breaths came faster . . . he knew she had felt something. Something she didn't want to feel. And because she didn't want him, Chuck had exerted all his control to hold his tongue and not say anything about how he felt.

The only thing that kept him from sinking into a pit of sadness was the importance of the task they had been given. The letter that he had intercepted and copied had proven very interesting to the spymaster, according to the note he had received from Sir Francis along with Sarah's letter about the dance lessons. It appeared that the intercepted letter fit a code that was similar to others used by Catholic plotters and Queen Mary of Scots. Sir Francis speculated that the plot was advancing quickly and warned Chuck to be on his guard.

That was easier said than done. Other than the coded letter, there seemed to be little evidence that the Earl of Lincoln was a traitor. When he was in his mansion, the Earl spent most of his time closed up in his library, reading. He occasionally requested the assistance of Mr. Milbarge for letter-writing, when Mr. Winterbottom wasn't around. The Earl also went to the Admiralty Offices every day; Chuck assumed it was for meetings and business relating to his post as Lord High Admiral.

Other than the Earl, the only member of the family in the house was the Countess, who spent most of her time serving in the Queen's household. Sarah had pointed her out to Chuck, and of course he had attended the concert at court where the Countess had played and sang.

So Chuck did not know who to suspect or even if he should have any suspicions in the first place. But Sir Francis seemed certain and with his knowledge and experience, Chuck felt he had to trust the spymaster's instincts.

"You 'bout finished there, love?"

The voice of Hannah, the Earl's cook, broke into Chuck's thoughts. "Oh, yes, thank you, Hannah," he said, standing up from the table and handing her his plate. "The meat pie was wonderful."

The dimples in Hannah's cheeks deepened as she smiled at him. "You want fattening up. All skin and bones, and no girl wants that."

"Even if I ate three meals of your cooking every day, I couldn't get fat, Hannah," he said, smiling a little. "Good day to you."

Feeling more full than normal, Chuck walked out of the kitchen and towards the servant stairs. Just before he passed the door of the wine pantry, he heard low voices-and one of them sounded like Mr. Milbarge.

Chuck frowned. Mr. Milbarge prided himself on never coming below-stairs. With his position, he could ring for meals to be served in his office. And the wine pantry was off-limits to all servants except the butler, Decker.

It was a dangerous proposition, but Chuck stepped into a small niche by the pantry's doorway. Eavesdropping was tricky to pull off, but he had spent several years honing that skill by listening to Eleanor's conversations. He stood very still and breathed as quietly as possible.

Milbarge's voice floated out through the half-open doorway. "All this Spanish wine! I don't know why Mr. Winterbottom keeps ordering it. It's not what his lordship likes."

"It's not up to you or I to question his lordship's tastes," the butler remarked in an icy tone. Chuck couldn't help grinning a little.

"Hmph," Mr. Milbarge sniffed. "I can guess who's ordering this slop. Getting drunk at the Earl's expense, Decker?"

"I never, sir!" Decker's voice was full of wounded pride. "We both know who has requested this . . . inferior product."

"Ahhh, of course," Milbarge said. "The Countess."

The Countess? Chuck felt his eyebrows lift. The Earl's wife didn't seem like a drinker. In fact, from Chuck's impression of her, she seemed more likely to deny herself any pleasure, no matter how small. Hannah often complained how the Countess wanted only simple, bland food.

"Yes," Decker said grudgingly. "For her guests and herself."

Mr. Milbarge sounded disgusted. "Bloody Papists."

"Preferring Spanish wine is not proof of heresy, Mr. Milbarge," Decker chided.

"It's enough for me," Milbarge retorted.

Although Chuck was tempted to keep listening, it seemed wiser to leave before he was discovered. So he carefully stepped away, resuming his path towards the servant stairs as he mulled over what he had heard.

Could it be that it wasn't the Earl they should be watching, but the Countess of Lincoln? Was she a secret Catholic, as Mr. Milbarge suggested? Given how rarely the man seemed to be right about anything, Chuck was doubtful. But it could bear some watching.

After such excitement, if it could be called excitement, his afternoon passed quietly enough. He reviewed reports from one of the Earl's farms, but in the back of his mind he found himself thinking about tomorrow night and the banquet, which meant he mostly thought about his dance with Sarah.

Once he finished his half-day of work tomorrow, Chuck thought he should stop by the bath house and have a wash. He might even have a shave as well, depending on how much money Morgan had managed to bring in today. With the eyes of the court on him tomorrow night, he could at least look his best. Not that his best was much better than presentable.

Chuck sighed softly and ran a hand over his beard. He was hoping in vain if he thought improving his appearance might make a difference with Sarah. After their first dance lesson, she had been so reserved-even more reserved than usual. Not in a way that was noticeable to others, he thought. Sarah had been warm and flirtatious towards Chuck while Catherine was present. But when he looked in her eyes, he could see her inner struggle, her attempts to keep a wall up between him and her innermost thoughts.

He wished he could understand her better. To know why she seemed so determined to hold people at arm's length. Or at least, why she wanted to hold herself apart from him. He had hoped as time went on, she would be able to relax with him. Once she saw that she didn't have anything to fear from him and that he respected her, he thought they could at least form an easy partnership. Although he wished she might care for him, he wasn't the kind of man to force her to do anything she didn't wish to do.

There had been plenty of men in his village, as well as in London, who took advantage of those more weak and powerless than themselves. But Chuck knew all too well how it felt to be mocked and humiliated, even threatened with violence, by those kind of men. He wouldn't become one of them himself. It wasn't just that Eleanor would never forgive him if he did something like that. He would never forgive himself.

It was tempting to tell Sarah that, to explain that she had nothing to fear from him. But he wasn't sure it would matter to her. And with the dance to prepare for, they had not been able to meet without company. And as soon as they completed each practice session, they both needed to hurry off to perform their expected duties.

Perhaps at the banquet there would be time to speak with Sarah. To really show her that he was her friend. And if she still doubted him, there was still the obvious connection between them: they were partners in this assignment, two intelligencers hoping to protect the Queen and England. And with this information about the Countess, he had much to share with Sarah.

When seven o'clock arrived, Chuck gathered his notebooks and made his way to the servant's door. He felt somewhat lost in his thoughts, planning his latest report for Sir Francis, as he approached the ferry landing.

To his surprise, he saw a medium-sized river boat approaching the landing, one with sober black drapes strung along the deck, hiding the occupants. The craft was expertly maneuvered as it was tied up at the dock, thus thwarting Chuck's use of the landing. He would need to find another landing in order to get home.

Chuck was getting ready to turn and leave, grumbling on the inside about the extra time his trip home would now take, when he saw a man step off the barge. And not just any man: Count Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador.

Almost immediately, an alarm sounded in his head. Why would the Spanish ambassador be visiting the home of the Lord High Admiral? The Earl of Lincoln had no experience in diplomacy and was unlikely to cross paths with Count Mendoza except during the earl's infrequent appearances at court. Although . . . could the ambassador be visiting the countess? Given the suspicions cast upon her by Mr. Milbarge and Decker, it would make sense.

As the ambassador walked past him without a flicker of recognition, Chuck felt relieved. The last thing he wanted was to have to make small talk with Count Mendoza, especially since he was leery of the man. At the last court event he had attended, Chuck had observed the ambassador watching Sarah with a great amount of interest. Something about the look in the Spaniard's eyes while he gazed at Sarah made Chuck concerned.

Shaking his head, Chuck started walking towards a different ferry landing. He needed to prepare a note for Sir Francis, informing him of the suspicions about the Countess of Lincoln and about Mendoza's visit. It seemed unlikely that he would be able to hand over his report until tomorrow night, when he saw Sarah at the banquet. He wished the delay didn't have to happen, yet he had no other option to get a message to the spymaster.

It was probably better to be cautious and patient than risk the operation by attracting attention. At least, Chuck hoped that would be the case. But he certainly picked up his pace, eager to get home and begin composing his report.

XXX

When he entered the dining hall of the palace, Chuck was fairly sure he had never seen so much food in one place in his whole life. He could almost hear the long tables groaning under the weight of golden plates and goblets, filled with the finest delicacies and drinks. A roasted swan, with marzipan decorations crafted to look like feathers, held the place of honor in front of the Queen. Small game birds cooked in wine and slabs of beef were also present, along with loaves of fine manchet, bowls of berries, trays of vegetables and small dishes of nuts and sweetmeats.

The aromas made his mouth water and his stomach rumble. The loud noise from dozens of conversations, mixing with the musicians in a corner of the room, created an ear-splitting din. Servants raced to and fro, fetching food and drink. It was an inspiring, amazing sight.

And he felt exceptionally out of place. Even with a trimmed beard and a freshly-washed doublet, he felt shabby, a country bumpkin amid the beautiful city folks. He stood just inside the banqueting hall, knowing that he was goggling at the luxury on display but unable to do anything else. His feelings of inadequacy increased when he spotted Sarah.

She was wearing that silvery-blue dress, the one that made her eyes look like the sky. The material of her gown looked silky and smooth; he could feel a tingle in his fingertips, an itch to stroke the fabric. And unlike him, she looked like she belonged here.

Chuck could tell when she saw him. A visible tension appeared in her frame, at odds with the smile she pasted on her face. He watched her move towards him, passing servants and courtiers, and he marveled at her natural grace, how easily she made everything appear. But he couldn't help worrying about the dance they had to perform, the people they had to convince, the report he had to give her and the secret feelings he must conceal from her.

As she approached, he bowed to her. "Lady Sarah," he said, hoping his voice didn't sound as nervous as he felt. Although he had worked as hard as he could at his dance lessons, he still felt shaky about performing all the steps-especially the volta. They had only practiced it once after their first time, Sarah claiming that it was more important to practice the galliard steps.

Sarah curtsied low, her skirts spreading over the rushes before she rose like a bubble floating through the air. "Mr. Carmichael." He could see how tightly she clasped her hands in front of her, even as she smiled without her eyes brightening. "Are you ready?"

"As much as I can be," Chuck said quietly. His nerves were making his palms sweat, so he tried to casually rub them against his hose. He could feel his shoulders hunching, an old habit that reappeared whenever he felt nervous or exposed. Glancing around the room, he could feel several pairs of eyes on him. It was easy to guess what they were thinking: who was this man who dared to disturb all the beauty and perfection in this room?

This was madness. There was no way he could get through this dance without embarrassing Sarah and proving that their romance was a sham. He would let down Sir Francis, destroy all the hard work by the spymaster and everyone else, and risk the Queen's life. Chuck swallowed, trying not to lose the meager contents of his stomach.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his wrist and a soft voice in his ear. "Chuck, it's all right."

Somehow, Sarah had managed to get close to him without his notice. Clearly, he was more agitated than he realized. Chuck blinked, staring down at her face. "Sarah, I-"

"I know you're worried," she said, her eyes focused on his. "I'm a little scared myself. The Queen is very intimidating."

"If I mess up, it will look bad for you," he said, hearing his inner bleakness leak into his voice. "For us."

"You won't mess up," Sarah said. "You're a good dancer, Chuck. And even if you trip or forget a step, you just have to smile and look like you're enjoying yourself."

Chuck swallowed and ducked his head, wondering if he would be able to counterfeit enthusiasm. He wasn't sure. And it felt like all the steps had gone completely out of his head.

Dimly, he realized that Sarah was stroking his arm. He slowly lifted his eyes to look at her and felt his heart leap into his throat. Because for some reason, she was gazing at him with a profound tenderness, an expression that made him feel warm all over. "Just keep looking at me and you'll be fine, even if you make a mistake," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You-you think so?" he asked, feeling the first stirrings of hope.

Sarah nodded. "Yes. You can do this, Chuck." She took a deep breath. "We can do this together."

He searched her face, trying to figure out if she really meant what she said or if she was just trying to reassure him. It seemed that tonight she had dropped that mask for the moment. Right now, she seemed like she truly liked him. Although he didn't know why she was letting herself relax like this, he knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially at a time like this.

Keeping his eyes on hers, Chuck shifted and took her hand, holding it tightly. "Together."

A servant appeared by their side. "Lady Sarah, the Queen is requesting that you and your partner perform your dance, after your introductions."

"Of course," Sarah said. She looked up at Chuck and he straightened his shoulders. It was time to act like he belonged. But with Sarah holding his hand, acting like she actually cared about him, he felt an unexpected surge of confidence.

They slowly walked across the floor of the banqueting hall, approaching the head table where the Queen was surrounded by some of her closest counselors. As Chuck bowed low, he could see Sarah sink down into a curtsy.

"Ahhh, Lady Sarah. Mr. Carmichael."

The Queen's voice was rich and deep, sounding exactly how a monarch should in Chuck's opinion. As he rose, offering a hand to Sarah to help her up, he felt a small shiver run down his spine as he felt pinned under the Queen's gaze.

"Lady Sarah is one of our most devoted maids of honour. So devoted that romance seems to have never entered her mind until your arrival, Mr. Carmichael."

Chuck took a deep breath. "I am very lucky to have met Lady Sarah. But-but any claim I might have on her heart is nothing compared to the one you have, Your Majesty."

"We see Lady Sarah has coached you on how to flatter your monarch," the Queen said with a throaty chuckle.

He felt his ears turn red as he bowed slightly. "If she hadn't, I wouldn't be able to say anything at all, Your Majesty. At least, nothing that made sense."

"So just how did Mr. Carmichael capture your heart, Lady Sarah, if it wasn't with sweet words?" the Queen asked, looking at Sarah with a raised eyebrow.

"With honesty, Your Majesty," Sarah said, her voice soft.

"Honesty. What a novel approach," the Queen said, amusement in her voice. "Then let us see how honesty makes a relationship. Play a volta," she commanded to the musicians.

As he took his position for the dance, Chuck felt a wave of relief. That had gone all right, he thought. Of course, he hadn't needed to say very much. But it was the dance that would matter.

It took a moment for the musicians to begin. In that moment, Chuck let himself focus on Sarah. He watched how she held herself, saw the way she smiled at him. And even though he knew she was putting on a play for the court's benefit, he told himself that it was just for him.

A hush fell over the room, broken by the first notes of the musicians. In time with the music, they began to dance. He was concentrating so hard that it felt like the whole banquet hall fell away and it was just Sarah and himself. After the hours of practice, his body seemed to remember each step without his mind's work. He felt a rush of satisfaction at how he was able to mirror Sarah's movements, performing his part perfectly.

And then it was time for the volta itself, a step they repeated three times. It wasn't smooth or flawless, but each time he took Sarah in his arms and lifted her, turning them both, he felt that same rush of pleasure at having her so close, having her depend on him if only for a moment. Maybe, just maybe, she would realize that he could be trusted . . .

The music ended and Chuck fell into their agreed-upon final move, holding Sarah's hand and kneeling before her. As applause broke out from the crowd, he breathed hard and looked up at Sarah, waiting for her reaction. She was also panting, although less than he was, but his heart sank when he saw that once again, like when he had first walked into the room, her smile didn't reach her eyes.

Chuck rose to his feet and turned to look at the Queen, still holding Sarah's hand.

"Well done!" she said loudly over the noise of the buzzing audience. "Perhaps honesty is the best policy! Enjoy dinner, the both of you." She gestured towards the end of the table, where two empty places were laid.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Sarah said, curtsying. Chuck quickly bowed, then followed Sarah to the seats. He collapsed into the chair, feeling his heart pound against his ribs, as Sarah sank down in her chair across from him.

They had done it. They had managed to convince the Queen of England that their relationship was real. It was a relief for Chuck to not worry about how the court saw their relationship. But that could be a blessing in disguise, he thought as he looked at Sarah. Who was avoiding his eyes while appearing not to do so.

With the Queen's approval, their romance was now an established fact. So would Sarah want to spend more time with him? He doubted it. Not with her attempts to put walls up between them. And with the plotters becoming bolder and accelerating their plans, there was less and less time before their assignment would be finished.

After a servant filled their glasses, Chuck picked his up and sipped the wine, trying to gather his thoughts. He gazed at Sarah over the rim of his goblet, watching as she spoke softly with one of her fellow maids of honour-Elizabeth, he thought her name was.

He needed to face the truth: there was no hope for a relationship with Sarah. Not when she wouldn't let him in, not when it wasn't what she wanted. And that thought made him realize that he wasn't that hungry. All Chuck wanted was to hand off his report to Sarah and then go back to his lodgings. Back to where he belonged. It would make easier his attempts to forget he had given his heart away to someone who didn't want it.

Finishing his glass of wine, Chuck sought Sarah's attention. But she seemed determined to keep talking to Lady Elizabeth. After what felt like ages, he carefully slid his hand into his pocket, taking out his report. Then he reached out and lightly touched her hand. "Lady Sarah?"

It might be his imagination, but she seemed to tense up at his touch. She spoke a word to Lady Elizabeth, who stepped away, and then Sarah turned to look at him. "Yes?" she asked coolly, gazing at him like a woman in love.

The dichotomy between her voice and her face made his thoughts snarl. "You look very beautiful today," he said softly, giving her the signal.

She leaned across the table, keeping her voice pitched low. "One of the maids is ill and they could use my help tonight. I have to leave in a moment."

It was as if she hadn't heard him. Perhaps she was just distracted. If they could have some time alone, he could pass her the letter and then they might be able to work out this situation. Chuck swallowed. "Must you?" he asked, gazing into her eyes. "Please, Sarah, I think we need to talk."

She drew back from him, her eyes narrowing slightly. She pasted a happy smile on her face. "Chuck, it's not possible now. Come back in a few days, when you have your next report, and we can talk then."

"Sarah, no, I have-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Lady Catherine appeared by Sarah's side. "Sarah, Mary is getting worse. We need you." Sarah's fellow maid gave Chuck a tight grin. "Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Carmichael."

Chuck watched, getting halfway to his feet as he tried to stop them from leaving. But the ladies were faster than he was, and he was left watching as Lady Catherine practically dragged Sarah away. Looking around in embarrassment, he sank back down into his chair and wondered what he should do now.

Did Sarah want him to wait for her to return? If she didn't come back, how could he send Sir Francis his report? The information had already waited twenty-four hours; he didn't think his message could stand further delay. But if not through Sarah, how could he send his letter to Sir Francis when secrecy was of the essence? Chuck knew that Sarah gave his reports to someone here in the palace who then took them to Sir Francis. But Chuck had no idea who this person was.

He fidgeted a little with his goblet, looking around as the banquet drew to a close. The courtiers were rising to their feet and mingling, preparing to leave the room. Meanwhile, the servants were beginning to clear the tables.

It was time for him to leave. But the letter he carried inside his doublet was a heavy weight. What was he going to do?

As he walked through the halls of the palace, heading towards the palace's dock, he weighed his options. He could try and leave his report with someone to give to Sarah. He could deliver it to her tomorrow, in spite of her request for him to wait a few days. Or he could find his own way to send the message directly to Sir Francis. Like Morgan.

Chuck frowned slightly. Did he want to bring his friend into all this? True, it was just carrying a message, but Morgan's natural curiosity meant there could be a danger that he wouldn't just carry the letter-that he would open it to see what was inside. But perhaps if he made it sound like something Morgan wouldn't be interested, something about a new scientific discovery or some such . . .

Yes, that would have to do. If he picked up his pace, Morgan would be able to deliver his report to Sir Francis before it got too late.

So with his mind made up, Chuck hurried to the palace's dock and hired a ferry to take him home.

End, Chapter 3


	5. Chapter 4

**Ready ****at ****Your ****Hand****, ****Chapter**** 4 (5/10)**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: In the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, a Catholic plot against the queen comes to the attention of spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham. To protect Elizabeth, he develops an unusual plan: hide the passing of intelligence between two agents by a false romance. When Lady Sarah Walker and Chuck Carmichael meet, though, their pretend flirtation becomes much more.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author****'****s ****Note**: I'm so pleased by how many people are interested in this story, although it's probably a tougher read than most fanfics. Thank you to everyone who's read and reviewed!

XXX

"If thy heart fails thee, climb not at all."

Queen Elizabeth I

XXX

It was nearly midnight, the time that usually marked the end of the day. For Lady Sarah Walker, there was a feeling of relief at concluding a difficult, challenging day. But she knew it was just temporary, because she had yet to fully contemplate the events of the day. And once she began doing that, she suspected her relief would vanish like snow in sunshine.

A single candle was the only source of light in the small room, home to several of the younger maids of honour. Sarah sat on a hard wooden chair at the bedside of Lady Mary Parry, who was finally asleep. A sudden illness had come over her rapidly during the banquet, and Sarah had been pressed into nursemaid service at the request of Mary's aunt, Lady Blanche.

There had been some initial fear that Mary was suffering from the sweating sickness. True, there had not been a major outbreak for nearly thirty years, but Queen Elizabeth, like her royal father before her, had a dread fear of the disease. Fortunately, the symptoms were quickly seen as an upset stomach, not the sweat, thanks to one of the household physicians. Lady Mary would be fine, after a day's rest. An hour ago, she had managed to drink some wine containing a sleep potion and had drifted off to sleep.

And now that the danger was past, Sarah had nothing to do except sit and think about the emotions stewing inside her after dancing with Chuck.

The whole day, she had felt a buzz of anticipation and anxiety, like the tingle of a limb moved after being left in one position for too long. After four days of lessons, she felt confident that Chuck could handle the dance. That he would be competent enough to perform. And she had no worries about his ability to look like he was in love with her.

Sarah nibbled on her lower lip. Catherine's words after the first dance lesson had hit her like a punch to the stomach. Over the next few days, Sarah had observed Chuck, cataloging his reactions and his expressions. From her study, she thought Catherine might be right.

And then came their conversation before their dance. When he was nervous and scared, and a few words and a light touch from her had been enough to make him feel confident. Then she knew. He loved her.

But so far, he hadn't said anything about his feelings. Hadn't tried to pressure her, hadn't taken advantage of the situation to grope her or kiss her. He had been respectful, kind and sensitive to her feelings. That made Chuck different from any other man she had ever met.

What did his silence mean? He seemed like a talker, someone who enjoyed conversation. So the fact that he hadn't told her anything about how he felt . . . could Catherine be wrong? Could Sarah's instincts be incorrect? Was Chuck just an amazing actor, able to present all the signs of a man in love and not feel it?

She took a deep breath, wishing the air in the room wasn't so stale and musty, because it felt almost suffocating. Wishing that this chair wasn't so hard, digging into her spine whenever she leaned against the backrest. But being uncomfortable was part and parcel of her future and she had to become used to persevering in spite of her physical state.

Returning to her thoughts, she analyzed Chuck's reactions to her since she had met him and particularly in the last week. It didn't seem possible that Chuck was counterfeiting his emotions. He was so open and honest; from the first moment she had met him, she could read him like a book. The easiest way to present a lie was to believe it. Perhaps Chuck had unwittingly figured that out and persuaded himself to believe that he had feelings for her. It would allow him to be convincing at playing her lover. Could that explain why he hadn't confessed his feelings to her?

Even though he appeared head over heels for her, Chuck had not spoken of his feelings and had made no physical overtures when they were alone. It was as if he had actually listened to her in their first meeting. She had wanted to keep their relationship, such as it was, purely about the mission. She hadn't wanted to know anything about him. It was Chuck's logical suggestion that made her relent and exchange facts about their lives. But other than their dossiers, they had never truly discussed each other. He barely knew her, but it didn't seem to matter to him.

Sarah leaned back against her chair, contemplating the situation. If Chuck truly cared about her, it shouldn't matter to her, except as a consequence of working with an inexperienced intelligencer, someone who didn't have her skills in separating emotions from the task at hand. Hopefully, once the mission was complete, she might have the time to apologize to him. To tell him that she hadn't meant for him to actually fall in love with her. She had to admit that it was unfortunate that he had developed feelings for her, because it wasn't fair to him. He was an interesting, intelligent, kind man. Chuck deserved a woman who could love him with all her heart and soul. She just hoped that he would be able to find that woman after she was out of his life.

Her seat was so uncomfortable that Sarah shifted on the chair, rearranging her skirts. As she moved, she caught a faint whiff of pine and frowned. The contact with Chuck during their dance must have caused some of his scent to rub onto her dress. She hadn't thought he used cologne or scent, though-he didn't seem the type. But if she remembered correctly, his beard had been neatly trimmed. Maybe his stop at the barber had included some kind of tonic, one that smelled like pine trees.

As she looked down at her dress, she felt the strangest urge to lift her arm and sniff her sleeve. But that was ridiculous. All of these thoughts were a waste of her time. Mary was sleeping comfortably; Sarah should get up and go to her own bed. Hopefully she could sneak into her room and get undressed without waking Catherine.

Rising from her chair, Sarah leaned over and checked on Mary. The young girl's face no longer held the flush of illness; her cheeks were now their normal pale color and her breathing was even as she slept. Sarah slightly adjusted the bedclothings over Mary, then stepped carefully, keeping her footsteps quiet as she exited the room.

The halls of the palace, even at this late hour, were not completely deserted. Guards were stationed along the corridors and a few servants were still hard at work cleaning up after the banquet. Moving quietly, Sarah arrived at the room she shared with Catherine and slipped inside.

It was dark in the room, requiring a moment for Sarah's eyes to adjust. Once she could see better, she began the annoying process of taking off her dress.

"Sarah?"

"Oh, Catherine," Sarah said softly. "I'm sorry, I was trying to be quiet."

There was some soft rustling, then a candle flame appeared, shedding light on Catherine's face. "I wasn't asleep-I was waiting for you. How's Mary?"

"Sleeping now. She'll be fine, according to the physician." Sarah frowned slightly. "You were waiting for me?"

Catherine set the candle on the small table by her side of the bed, then jumped to her feet. "I hate undressing myself. So I thought I'd wait for you to come back and help you." She moved behind Sarah and started unlacing her dress.

Sarah was touched. It was nice of Catherine to sacrifice sleep to help her. Nice, but also unexpected.

"Thank you, Catherine," she said, glancing over her shoulder at her.

"You're welcome. And this gives you a chance to explain just how you feel about Chuck," Catherine said, putting an extra lilt as she said his nickname.

She should have known that there was some kind of angle to Catherine's help. Her friend had been waiting with a moderate amount of patience for Sarah to discuss her feelings for Chuck, and apparently Catherine had decided now was the time for that talk.

And although she had spent the last four days preparing what to tell Catherine, perfecting a shy performance that revealed her supposed feelings, it suddenly didn't feel right or real. She sensed that Catherine would see through her words and find them unconvincing and rehearsed. So she had to think quickly.

Stepping out of her dress once Catherine had it unlaced, Sarah picked it up and carried it to her wardrobe. "All right, Catherine. Let's talk."

Catherine sat down on their bed. "About time. I admit, I didn't understand the appeal at first, but now? It crept up on me."

As she took down her hair, Sarah realized that Catherine had voiced her own reaction to Chuck. When she had first met him, he had seemed gawky and awkward. Not smooth and charming like the men at court. But those men had never attracted her attention. And Chuck had a quiet charm of his very own, a charm that came from his kindness, his sense of humor, his intelligence.

"The same thing happened to me," Sarah said after she finished braiding her hair. She walked over and sat next to Catherine on the bed. "He . . . he's not like other men at court."

"Not at all," Catherine said, her tone encouraging. "And thank God for that. This place needed something new, something different."

Sarah chuckled softly. "I suppose." She folded her hands in her lap, taking a moment to find a way to tell Catherine about the feelings she didn't really have. "I . . . I think that's why I've felt so confused."

"What's there to be confused about? He's clearly besotted with you, and you seem to like him. Although it's hard to tell."

"It is?" Sarah asked curiously. Catherine was the closest thing she had to a friend at the court, and if she hadn't managed to convince her, convincing the Queen wouldn't seem to matter so much.

"It's just, you still seem the same."

She frowned. "What? Did you expect me to change into someone else?"

Catherine rolled her eyes. "No, of course not. I didn't expect you to act all rigid like Elizabeth, or silly like Mary. But every other maid who's ever fallen in love, all I've heard is her blithering on, saying things like 'love has changed me!'"

"That is true," Sarah said slowly, recalling those conversations that Catherine was describing. Over her four years of service in the Queen's household, two or three maids a year fell in love, and most spoke of how love transformed them. Of course, some of those love affairs hadn't worked out, but even those maids admitted that they were different after falling in love.

But had she changed since she had met Chuck? What could she tell Catherine?

"Of course it's true. Because I'm always right," Catherine said, folding her arms over her chest. "So spill. You must have something to say about Chuck. About how he makes you feel."

Could she make this about the physical feelings Chuck created in her? It might be enough to satisfy Catherine, who made no secret of her appreciation for the physical side of love.

"He . . . he smells like pine trees," Sarah said slowly, feeling her cheeks flush. "I've never met anyone who has that scent, and-and I like it." She paused, then blurted out, "It makes me tingle all over."

Her friend grinned at her. "Tingles, huh?"

Sarah nodded, pulling her knees in against her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "Yes. And-and he's kind. He doesn't expect anything more than what I'm willing to give him."

"I like a man who takes what he wants. Who turns me into putty in his hands."

"I wouldn't like that," Sarah said firmly, shaking her head. "I want a man that respects me. Who's unmanned by me as much as I am by him."

Catherine made a _pft_ noise. "What sort of man is that? No man, in my book."

"But wouldn't it be something to talk to a man and feel like he's really listening to you?" Sarah asked, looking at Catherine. "To be treated as if you have a mind?"

"Maybe," Catherine said with a shrug.

"Well, that's what I want," Sarah said before she paused and looked down. It was something she had never thought about: the kind of man she wanted. She had planned so much for her future, seeing herself as a spy and having adventures. And in her dreams, she was alone and independent, allowing no man into her life unless she wanted him there. And until recently, she thought no man would be willing to allow her such independence.

"Enough of this respect and kindness," Catherine said, nudging Sarah and drawing her out of her thoughts. "Please tell me you've kissed him."

If her cheeks had been pink before, Sarah was sure they were bright red now. She ducked her head and that was answer enough for Catherine. "Tell me what it was like!" she insisted, rising onto her knees. "It was good, wasn't it?"

This kind of girlish discussion was so foreign to Sarah. She had never had secrets-at least not ones she was willing to share, let alone someone to share them with. Perhaps Catherine was more of a friend than she thought. And suddenly, she understood the appeal of talking to a friend about your life.

And maybe telling Catherine about the kiss might help her move past these strange feelings and let her focus on the mission.

Sarah nodded slowly. "Yes," she said quietly. "It was good."

"What did he do?" Catherine asked, leaning forward.

"He . . . he kissed me back," Sarah said, feeling once again that swirl of confusion and attraction that she experienced every time she thought of the kiss in the garden.

"He kissed you back?" Catherine asked curiously, raising an eyebrow. "So you kissed him first?"

It was all she could not to squirm under Catherine's gaze. She felt unsettled. She was beginning to rethink her idea to tell Catherine in order to master herself. Because the more she talked, the more nervous she became. "Yes," she said quietly.

"You scarlet woman!" Catherine's glee was a bit extreme, Sarah thought, feeling her stomach tighten. "Making a move on him, hmm?" Catherine said, her eyes glittering with curiosity.

This wasn't working. She was fairly certain that Catherine meant well, but . . . but she couldn't do this. She got up and went around to her side of the bed. "Yes, I kissed him. And it was good." She pulled back the bedclothes and slid into bed.

Catherine sighed softly. "Sarah . . ."

"It's late," Sarah said. She took a deep breath and looked at Catherine, managing a small smile. "I know you mean well, and I'm trying, but . . . but I think I'd like to keep some things to myself."

"All right," Catherine said with a nod. She moved around and got under the covers. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me." She blew out the candle and settled herself down. Within a few moments, Sarah could hear Catherine's breathing even out as she fell asleep.

Sarah rolled onto her side, gazing into the darkness. Her mind was too active for sleep. There were so many different thoughts in her head, fighting for her attention. She knew she should calm down, try to sleep so she wouldn't be exhausted during the next day, but it just didn't seem likely until she resolved these dilemmas.

Talking to Catherine about her feelings seemed to have reassured her friend. She thought that Catherine now believed that Sarah really cared for Chuck, that their relationship was real. But although Catherine was reassured, Sarah wasn't.

There had to be a way to overcome her reactions to Chuck and not lose sight of what really mattered: the mission of protecting the Queen and keeping her safe. Sarah had tried to just ignore those feelings, but it didn't seem to be working. So she needed to try something else, find a new method.

Maybe she could-

Sarah sat up in bed, her eyes wide. Chuck had given her the signal that he had a report to pass to her. And she had been so distracted by her body and preserving the appearance of their relationship and doing her part for her fellow maids that she had completely overlooked his signal.

A wave of guilt and embarrassment and dismay washed over her. How could she have been so foolish? Such a basic, preventable mistake was beneath her-she was better trained than that. Over the years, her instructors had always commended her for her focus, for her ability to keep practicing without becoming bored or distracted. But a few tingles and a sick maid and she had forgotten all she had learned.

The sound of Catherine shifting beside her made Sarah lay back down, but the guilt wasn't fading. She had made a major mistake and she had to find a way to correct it. Actually, she had made two: trying to ignore her reaction to Chuck and allowing that struggle to interfere with her role in the mission.

So how would she fix her errors? She had the rest of the night to come up with a plan, and she was determined to find a solution to her problem.

XXX

Chuck tried to tell himself that there was no reason to be as nervous as he was. It had been an hour since Morgan had left with the report for Sir Francis, so his best friend should be back at any moment. If he came in and saw Chuck pacing back and forth and looking worried, Morgan would realize something was going on. And that was the last thing Chuck wanted.

When he had arrived at his lodging house, he felt confident with his plan. His years of friendship with Morgan gave him plenty of knowledge in how to get his friend to do something. At least, he hoped it did.

As he entered their room, he saw Morgan counting some coins. His spirits rose at the sight. "You had a good day, I see."

Morgan grinned widely at Chuck. "The baker has been very impressed with my work."

"That's fantastic, Morgan," Chuck said, smiling back at his friend. "Maybe you should reconsider being a baker's apprentice."

"Nah, I couldn't leave you, Chuck," he said, taking his coins and holding them out to Chuck. "Besides, how could I come up with the apprenticeship fee?"

"That is a problem," Chuck admitted. He took the coins from Morgan and deposited them in the small bank they used for their wages. "I'm very proud of you, though, for doing your part."

It was hard to tell due to Morgan's beard covering his cheeks, but he thought his friend was blushing. "It's the least I could do."

Chuck took a deep breath. "I don't suppose you would mind carrying a letter for me? I know it's a bit late . . ."

"Of course, Chuck," Morgan said, a spark of curiosity in his voice. He nudged Chuck. "Is it a love letter to the mysterious and beautiful Sarah? Please say it's a letter to Sarah."

"Unfortunately, no," Chuck said, smiling a little at Morgan. He pulled out his report and held it out to Morgan. "I need you to take this to Sir Francis Walsingham's house in Drury Lane."

He was relying on Morgan not knowing who Sir Francis was; Morgan didn't tend to stay abreast of politics or current events. And thankfully, that was the case this time.

"Guess he's some scientist or such," Morgan said, pocketing the letter.

"Something like that," Chuck said. "I just need you to get that to him as quick as you can. And there's no need to wait for a reply."

"Right-o, Chuck," Morgan said. "I'll be back in a jiffy." He gave Chuck a small salute and walked out of the room.

Morgan seemed a bit more cavalier about the errand than Chuck would have liked. But then, without knowing about the danger he might be in, what did Morgan have to worry about? It was up to Chuck to fret.

How did Sir Francis handle this kind of strain? How did Sarah manage the worry of asking someone for help? The worry and fear of sending someone out in the world to do something dangerous, the lies and omissions to those you considered your friends . . .

Chuck paused in his pacing as a realization came to him. Had Sarah ever experienced such a situation? He doubted it. After all, this was her first assignment as well. And he was breaking the rules by asking Morgan to help him. He didn't think Sarah would even bend the rules, let alone break them.

And if he was truly honest with himself . . . it was different for Sarah, because she had so few people in her life that had the same kind of place like Morgan had in his. Catherine, maybe, but by her own admission their friendship was due more to self-protection than common interests. He had hoped he was her friend, but after tonight he might only be someone she worked with against her will.

With a sigh, Chuck slumped down in a chair. Tonight, he had experienced an extreme high from dancing with Sarah and convincing the Queen. But then, during their conversation, he had plunged to an equally extreme low. Sarah hadn't listened to him. She had shut him out, for some reason he couldn't understand.

He wanted to understand. He thought when she had looked at him and told him that they could do this, that maybe she was willing to rely on him, just a little. Just until the mission was done and they could go their separate ways.

If his hopes had risen that maybe Sarah might want more than that, more than just a professional relationship, it was his own fault. Looking into her eyes, feeling her hand on his arm, it was like falling in love with her all over again. And for a split second, he had thought that she might feel a little bit of what he felt.

But with how she had acted after their dance, he had to assume that she was just attempting to get him through his nerves. She had been successful-if she knew how successful, he thought she might have eased up on the reassurance. Yet he wouldn't give up on those moments for anything in the world. It was the closest he would ever get to experiencing the bliss of being loved by Lady Sarah Walker.

Shaking his head, Chuck tried to push aside such thoughts. Where was Morgan? Had something happened to him? He was ready to go out and start looking for his friend when he heard footsteps approaching the door of their room.

For some reason, he had a bad feeling at the sound of those heavy steps, especially once they stopped in front of the door to the room. They didn't sound like Morgan's normal tread. It might be his mind running away from him, but Chuck moved to stand behind the door, waiting to see who walked in.

The door was flung open, nearly hitting Chuck in the face. "Chuck? Chuck, where are you?"

The sound of Morgan's voice made him realize how ridiculous he was acting. "Hello, Morgan," he said, pushing the door shut behind his friend. "Right here. How did it go?"

Chuck tried to sound casual as he asked his question, his eyes running over Morgan. The shorter man looked just as he had when he left their room an hour ago; there was no signs of any injuries, no indication of any harm that had befallen him.

"Oh, it was easy, Chuck. I did just like you said: took the letter to Sir Francis's house and left it there."

"And you didn't open the letter? You went straight there and came right back?"

Morgan looked at Chuck, his eyes narrowed. "Yes . . ." Then his expression grew curious. "Although it was strange-I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I kept seeing a man with one of those funny hats, the kind with the tall crown, you know what I mean."

That wasn't what Chuck was expecting. Who would be watching Morgan, following Morgan? Had someone realized what Chuck was doing for Sir Francis and therefore was watching this house? And if they were watching here, they would know who Morgan was-so they would have followed a servant sent out to deliver something to someone with whom Chuck normally wouldn't have any connection.

Or he could be letting his overly-suspicious thoughts get the better of him, Chuck reminded himself. It could have been Morgan's active imagination overextending itself, or could have nothing to do with Chuck's work for Sir Francis. So he did his best to strike a teasing note. "Now, Morgan, you haven't been flirting with that girl Anna again, have you? I don't think her father would care for that. German men are so large and so over-protective about their daughters."

Morgan groaned. "Why'd you have to go and remind me of Anna, Chuck? Some friend you are. She came into the bakery today . . ."

And like that, Morgan was off to the races, describing today's interaction with the servant girl who had caught his eye last week. Chuck let Morgan talk, nodding and making the appropriate comments. He was grateful that Morgan seemed to have forgotten being under surveillance, but Chuck knew this could be a very bad sign.

Tomorrow, he would have to find the time to see Sarah and tell her what he had done. Somehow, Chuck doubted the conversation would go very well. But if anyone needed to know what he had done-if anyone would know what to do next-Sarah would be his first choice. Well, actually, Sir Francis would be the best choice, Chuck admitted to himself. But he didn't think that just because he had already broken the no-contact rule that Sir Francis would want any further communication to come directly from Chuck.

No, the prudent option would be to tell Sarah and ask what she thought. Make a plan to improve the transfer of any letters and papers between them. Perhaps even find out whom Sarah was working with at Court, in case a similar situation came up again.

He didn't think Sarah would be pleased with the action he took. For the first time, he was dreading a visit to the palace. Dreading the opportunity to spend time with Sarah. Because he had no idea how she might react, and if this conversation went as badly as he feared, how could they keep working together?

Chuck took a deep breath. He would have to wait and see and hope for the best. But never before had hoping seemed so hopeless.

XXX

Normally, Sarah found church to be a relaxing experience. The sermons every Sunday were a time when the whole court paused for a moment, allowing everyone to consider more than their worldly existence. Even when the preacher was more hellfire and damnation than love and compassion, she liked the opportunity to reflect over the past week.

But this Sunday, it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. Especially since when she thought about this week, she felt nothing but disappointment.

After a few hours of deep thought, Sarah had dropped off to an uneasy sleep. In consideration of her nursing of Lady Mary, she had been allowed to sleep for an extra hour that morning. But with mandatory church services to attend, the extra hour had not been enough. She was so careful to take care of herself, eating well and sleeping properly, that her lack of sleep was doubly disorienting due to its novelty. Sarah felt like her mind was fuzzy and dazed, and she hoped she would be able to get through the rest of her day without any mishaps.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, giving a special sermon today, closed his Bible. "Go with God," he announced, ending the morning service. Those words changed the congregants from respectful worshippers back into courtiers, ladies-in-waiting and servants, and the chapel's vaulted ceiling quickly filled with the sound of dozens of conversations.

Most maids of honour had Sunday afternoons off, and Sarah was included in that number today. And she knew exactly what she wanted to do today: walk in the gardens and get some fresh air, before gathering some flowers for Mary and settling down with her sewing. According to Catherine's report as they had walked to chapel, Mary was already feeling better.

Sarah smiled at Catherine as they walked out of the chapel, taking advantage of the lovely summer day to walk back to the palace through the gardens. "What are your plans today?" she asked her friend.

"There's a party going out on the river," Catherine replied. "You should come along."

"Thank you, but no," Sarah said. "I'd like some time alone this afternoon."

Catherine looked at her. "You're always alone. If I was you, I'd send a letter off to Chuck. Since you left so quickly last night, you should offer to make it up to him."

She drew to a halt, feeling her cheeks flush. Quietly, she admitted, "I thought about that. But I wasn't sure if I should."

The question of whether or not to contact Chuck had been at the forefront of her mind since she awoke. Her midnight deliberations had forced her to accept that for some strange, unknowable reason, she was attracted to Charles Carmichael. He wasn't at all the kind of man she thought she would find appealing, but her body's reactions were just too obvious to ignore.

It was disconcerting and almost overwhelming, but at least she wasn't trying to avoid her feelings. And somehow, accepting her physical attraction to Chuck seemed to make the most sense. There was nothing wrong with enjoying her reaction to his attentions, after all. She had no worries about him taking advantage of her-not simply because she could knock him flat, but because he wouldn't try to do so in the first place.

So she was now resolved to enjoy how Chuck made her feel. They both knew that this wasn't real, and Sarah couldn't deny that it was nice, to have a man court her in this manner and not have to worry about expectations or surprise proposals. If Chuck perhaps felt more than she did . . . well, she would do her best to ease any pain he felt once their mission was over.

But even though she wasn't going to avoid Chuck anymore, it didn't mean she was certain about seeing him again so soon. It was bound to be uncomfortable until she could find her equilibrium. However, that mattered less than the mission. And since she had missed his signal, she really should see him as soon as possible.

As if reading her mind, Catherine spoke in a decided tone. "I know you're confused, but he really wanted to talk to you last night, Sarah. It was fairly obvious. So put him out of his misery."

Sarah nodded. "I think I'll do just that." She smiled softly at Catherine. "You give good advice, you know."

"Goes hand-in-hand with always being right," Catherine said, tossing her hair and grinning at her.

With a laugh, Sarah resumed her pace towards the palace, Catherine keeping up with her. "All right, I'll send Chuck a note." She quirked an eyebrow at the redhead. "I suppose this river party is going to be loud and boisterous and full of improper behavior?"

"Why else would I be going?" Catherine said, her grin widening. "We're not pushing off until three, if you and Chuck want to join us."

"We'll see," Sarah said. "I don't even know if he has plans today or not. He might not be available to see me."

Catherine glanced up towards the palace, then stopped in her tracks. "Oh, I think he's free."

Hearing an unusual note in Catherine's voice, Sarah followed her friend's gaze and felt her breath catch. As if their conversation had caused him to appear, Chuck was standing at the top of the stone stairs that lead down into the garden. Even at this distance, he was distinctive enough for Sarah to recognize him. What she couldn't recognize was whatever he held in his hands.

"What is he holding?" Sarah asked, walking faster than before.

"I do believe those are flowers," Catherine said. "He's well-trained."

"Well-trained?" Sarah asked skeptically. "You make him sound like a dog or a horse."

"He's more of a puppy, I think," Catherine said with a snicker. She turned and lightly kissed Sarah's cheek. "I'll let you approach him on your own. Have fun, Sarah."

"Be good, Catherine," she called out softly towards Catherine's retreating back without paying much attention to whether Catherine heard her. It was uncanny that Chuck had decided to pay a call on her. And meeting her on a Sunday, the day when engaged couples usually visited with each other . . .

She gave her head a small shake and hurried towards the steps. At the same time, Chuck stepped down the stairs and met her halfway. "Hello, Sarah." His voice was quiet, but there was something in his expression that made her curious. He seemed sad. Like he was bracing himself for something that would be unpleasant.

"Hello, Chuck," she said, looking at him closely. Now she could see that the flowers in his hand were a small bunch of jessamine, something quite unexpected. She wouldn't have been surprised by a clump of wildflowers or even some roses, but jessamine?

"I thought you might like some flowers," Chuck said, holding the fragrant white blossoms out to her.

"Thank you," Sarah said quietly, taking the flowers and giving in to the urge to take a deep sniff of their heady perfume. "Jessamine are my favorite flower."

Chuck gave her a small smile, looking somewhat relieved. "I guessed that you might like them. The first time we talked, here in the gardens, I noticed that you seemed to breath deeper whenever we walked past the jessamine."

"That . . . that's very observant of you," she said, looking at him and not quite able to conceal her surprise. Picking up on a small detail like that was rather remarkable, given it was their first meeting and he had seemed so nervous that day. But now that she thought about it, he rarely let his nerves get the better of him. Not when it came to her.

He shrugged his shoulders a little. "If there was one thing Eleanor taught me, it's that flowers make everything better."

Sarah glanced around, noting a few clumps of people in the area. She took Chuck's arm, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Let's walk," she said softly. He nodded and matched her pace, a slow amble along the garden paths.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly. He looked down at her and Sarah tried for a smile. "I can tell something's not right. And no man brings a woman flowers without a reason."

That same small, tight smile as before appeared on his face and he nodded. She thought idly that she missed his wide, happy smiles. "You're right . . . there is a reason. I have something to confess."

When he didn't speak and the silence between them started to become heavy and thick, Sarah tried to draw him out. "What is it, Chuck?"

He took a deep breath. "Last night . . . I had a report to give you, but when you left so suddenly-"

"I'm sorry about that," she interrupted, pausing by a grove of willow trees that sheltered them from most prying eyes. "I was distracted and I let it affect me, to the point that I forgot my duty to our assignment."

"No, I should have just passed you the letter without worrying about the signal or following the proper procedure," Chuck countered. "Instead of what I ended up doing."

She frowned slightly, feeling confused. "What did you do?"

Chuck hesitated for a moment, looking at her. His expression made her think of what a doomed man must look like, just before he was taken to the gallows. But perhaps she was reading more into his appearance than she should.

When he spoke, his voice was halting. "I-I sent my report to Sir Francis. I had Morgan take it."

"What?" she said, staring up at him.

Of all the reactions she might have, disappointment wasn't what she expected. But that was the strongest feeling she had at the moment. Worry, annoyance and embarrassment were present, too, but most of all, she was disappointed. Not in Chuck, but in herself. Because she was already distracted by how she felt around him, she had let the situation with Mary take her completely out of her role in the mission. Without her to pass along his message, he had gone outside their guidelines, possibly endangering the Queen and risking the opportunity to eliminate the plotters.

If anything went wrong, Chuck would get the blame. But Sarah knew it was really her fault.

"I didn't know what to do," Chuck said, his words coming faster and faster as he continued speaking. "I didn't know to whom at Court you pass my reports and I didn't know how to find you in the palace to get you the letter, and the information was already twenty-four hours old and I didn't think it could wait any longer, and now Morgan thinks he was followed and I-I'm scared."

Sarah blinked. She didn't think she had ever heard a man admit to fear. Not so openly as Chuck had. And she knew he truly was scared: his eyes were wide and he was fidgeting with his doublet, rubbing the worn black fabric and fingering the cheap trim.

Watching him, all she wanted to do was reassure him. Tell him that it was really her fault. Comfort him that this kind of logistical error happened sometimes and that it would be all right. Ease his fears by stroking his hair and holding him close-

What on Earth was she thinking? This was ridiculous! What kind of future spy was she if she wanted to kiss away such a basic mistake? He should know better.

"Chuck, you shouldn't have done that," Sarah said, her voice low and hard. She almost didn't recognize the sound of her own voice.

"I know! But what else could I have done? I didn't know when I'd see you again, not after last night," Chuck said, his voice frustrated as he spread his arms wide.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sarah asked, putting her hands on her hips.

She had expected him to back off, to give ground. But instead, he actually stepped forward, moving closer to her. "You felt something. You actually care about me-the dance, and what you said before it, proves that. But it's the last thing you want, so you're always putting up whatever barriers you can-as long as they don't get in the way of the mission."

"That is nonsense!" she protested, her anger increasing exponentially into a fire that was exploding out of her control. "It might appear that I have a romantic interest in you, but I'm only playing a part, just as Sir Francis instructed both of us to do."

"No, you're not," he said, his voice firm and insistent. "I can see the fight in your eyes whenever I'm close to you." He paused and spoke again, his voice now soft and coaxing. "Sarah . . . you're not the only one with feelings."

With a shake of her head, she stepped back. "This isn't a penny romance or some sappy play. We're not lovers separated by fate or destiny or some such foolishness." She looked up at him, doing her best to keep her anger from showing on her face, trying to remain in control. "You violated our guidelines and endangered the mission."

"Only because you weren't listening to me," Chuck said, his eyes flickering with anger. "You missed my signal."

"So this is my fault now?" Sarah asked illogically, ignoring the fact that only moments before she had been thinking exactly that.

"Both of us are at fault," Chuck said. "Me for breaking procedures and yours for getting distracted. By how you feel about me."

"And just how do you think I feel?"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Sarah felt a sense of doom. She had just offered herself up, exposing herself to his gaze. He would reveal all his observations of her and she suspected he had seen much more than she had given him credit. She knew he had feelings for her . . . and now he was going to confirm them while guessing at her own.

Staring up at him, she braced herself for what he might say. For how he might try and turn this situation to his advantage and become like every other man when dealing with a woman.

"I think you like me," Chuck said, his eyes locked on hers. "I think liking me doesn't fit in with your plans. And so you're trying not to care about me."

She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to erect a barrier between them when he was standing so close to her. "It's a very interesting theory, Chuck. And I'm sorry if you think I feel something, but I don't. This is just a mission."

He tilted his head to the side, gazing at her, then took a deep breath. "Fine. If that's how you want this to be. But you should know, Sarah . . . this relationship we've been pretending to have, it isn't pretend for me."

Sarah opened her mouth to say something, although she didn't know what she would say, but Chuck held a hand up. "Please, don't say anything. And don't apologize. I don't want that. It's my problem to solve." He swallowed, his hand dropping to his side. Whatever courage or confidence that had carried him to this point seemed to be slipping away from him, she thought. And she told herself that she did not feel a pang at the sad, defeated look in his eyes.

"As soon as I have anything else to report, I'll come to court," he said quietly.

"I-I will let you know if Sir Francis contacts me," she replied, the words feeling thin and useless.

"All right," he said, stepping back from her. "Enjoy the flowers," he said, gesturing towards the jessamine that she still clutched in her hand. "And good day, Lady Sarah."

Automatically she curtsied in response to his bow, reeling a bit from his use of her title. "Mr. Carmichael."

For just a moment, he looked at her. It was like he had never looked at her before, because she felt like he was letting his eyes say everything he couldn't express in words. And his expression held her prisoner, because she could see everything he felt for her in the golden-brown depths of his eyes. Feelings that had only been hinted at, hopes cherished in silence . . . they were all there.

It must have lasted less than a minute, but Sarah felt like she was captured by his eyes for an endless moment. But then, he blinked and it was all gone. He turned and without another word began walking towards the palace.

Her legs felt a bit weak. Looking around, she spotted a small ornamental bench a dozen yards away. Somehow, she made her way over and sank down on the wooden seat, not caring if a stray splinter snagged the delicate silk brocade of her dress.

She wasn't sure what to think or feel at this moment. All she could do was look at her hands, holding the small bouquet of jessamine. She realized that her hands were going to smell of their fragrance for the rest of the day. She wouldn't be able to escape their scent and whenever she caught a whiff of it, she would remember what had happened. And with that, Sarah threw the bouquet as hard as she could. The flowers went tumbling, end over end, landing in the middle of some rose bushes.

"Too bad you're not a man. You'd be dangerous with a mace."

John Casey's gruff voice made Sarah jump. She turned on the bench, surprised that he had managed to sneak up on her. With his stocky, muscular build and great height, he didn't strike her as a graceful man. Although honestly, at this moment a wild boar could have surprised her.

Taking a deep breath, she said, "It's not the first time I've thought that."

"Bet you'd look less good in a skirt, though," he said, taking up a position beside her bench. He was dressed in his guard uniform, the sword at his hip glinting in the sunshine.

A harsh, strained laugh escaped her lips. "But it'd make my life so much simpler if I was a man."

Mr. Casey grunted. "You and Carmichael have a fight? That's what it looked like."

Sarah sighed quietly. It should bother her more that people would think that she and Chuck were arguing, since it wasn't part of the story they were trying to tell, but right now she couldn't find it in her to care that much. So she just nodded.

"It'll add to the chatter around here. First the big romantic dance," Mr. Casey said, his voice amused, "and now a fight."

"Are you just making conversation, Mr. Casey, or do you have something to say?" Sarah asked, knowing how short-tempered she sounded. It was revealing entirely too much to let him know how she was feeling, but she didn't think she could be her normal self right now. Not with everything she was thinking and feeling.

Mr. Casey shrugged. "You two need to be careful. Get too caught up in fakin' this big romance, you'll screw up the mission."

"I know that," Sarah said.

"Uh-huh," Mr. Casey said, not sounding convinced. "Just remember, feelings can get you killed."

She gritted her teeth. "I know," she repeated.

With a grunt, Mr. Casey moved to stand in front of her, facing her. "Look, I'm just your average guard, watchin' this from the outside. You two are foolin' anyone who doesn't look too close-and you're convincin' everyone who looks close that you're for real. So you just have to be careful."

"Careful of what?" Sarah asked dully, looking up at him.

"Of not startin' to believe that it's real," Mr. Casey said, an unexpected touch of sympathy in his voice. "Don't forget, you've got a job to do. So you and Carmichael, you should just hash things out and get your mission done."

"For a man of few words, you're awful chatty right now," Sarah said.

"'Cause I don't want you two to wreck this." He didn't elaborate on what he meant by 'this,' Sarah noted. Instead, he just gave her a small salute. "See you around, Walker."

Today seemed to be her day to watch men walk away from her, Sarah thought. She breathed slowly, trying to find some calm within herself, then rose from her seat and began walking slowly. The gardens always helped to relax her, helped her find a way to figure out her problems. She hoped that they would be able to do that yet again for her. But in the back of her mind, she couldn't help thinking that even the largest, most beautiful garden couldn't help this time.

XXX

This wasn't the first time in the last week that he had made his way home from the palace in a daze. But the circumstances were very different this time.

Sitting slumped in a ferry boat with his head in his hands, Chuck tried to figure out where everything had gone wrong. He had broken the promises he had made to himself, had backed Sarah into a corner, had possibly destroyed all the hard work that so many people had done to capture the possible traitors . . . he had even risked the safety and life of the monarch.

No one could feel like more of a failure than Charles Carmichael did right now.

The slapping of the waves against the boat and the creaking of the oars as the ferryman rowed overlapped with shouts and music from merrymakers. The river was crowded with barges and boats, full of people enjoying a beautiful, sunny summer Sunday. But Chuck was alone and lost in his own thoughts.

Certainly he was worried and concerned about his part in Sir Francis's attempts to unravel the Catholic plot against Queen Elizabeth. He might have jeopardized that work by sending Morgan to Sir Francis's house with that highly-sensitive report. If that letter had fallen into the wrong hands, it would have been catastrophic. Because logically, Chuck knew that any code could be broken with enough time. Something as simple as Morgan dropping the letter could have resulted in extreme danger.

And from Morgan's comments, it seemed that even with all the precautions that had been taken in coding the letter and passing his reports through Sarah, Chuck had still attracted attention. Because someone was watching his lodgings-someone had followed Morgan.

Chuck ran a hand through his hair. He knew he was belaboring the point. He knew he wasn't thinking clearly. But worrying about the Queen prevented him from thinking about another woman, one much closer to him yet even more unreachable.

The ferryboat bumped against the dock. "Three pence, sir. And if you don't mind a little free advice, you look like you should drown your sorrows. The Oar and Oyster is a good public house," the ferryman said, gesturing with one oar towards a building on the bank of the river, near the landing.

Fumbling in his pockets, Chuck found the pennies for the fare and handed them over. "Thanks," he said distractedly, climbing out of the boat. The ferryman probably had a deal with the pub, giving him free drinks for recommending the place to his customers. But as he walked towards his lodgings, the thought of going to his room and having to deal with Morgan's questions-Chuck couldn't bear it. So instead of turning right to go down his street, Chuck turned left and stepped into his local public house.

He didn't really have the money for drink. And ale affected him so strongly that he usually limited himself to the cheapest, weakest brew that was available. But today, Chuck didn't care that much about any of that. He slumped down at a table and it was only a moment before one of the barmaids bustled up to him.

"What's your fancy then?" she said with a smile, leaning forward to reveal her rather large amount of cleavage.

Pulling out a five-shilling coin, Chuck tossed it to her, watching as she nimbly caught it. "Bring me a brandy and keep them coming until the money runs out."

The barmaid nodded and shoved the coin between her breasts. "For a cutie-pie like you, I'll even bring you a free one, unless you'd like something else on the house."

He shook his head, not really caring for the dark-haired maid's suggestions. "Just the brandy, if you please. And thank you," he said, remembering his manners.

She pinched his cheek. "Any time, love." She bustled back to the bar, her hips swaying.

For lack of anything else, he dully watched her go, then looked down at the table. He was probably making a mistake. But at least this was a mistake that would only hurt him. He hadn't made many of those lately.

Chuck rubbed his hand over his face, making his beard unkempt. How could he have been so short-sighted? He had vowed to not reveal any of his feelings, to hold back in order to not risk their assignment and to give Sarah time. He knew how much she didn't want to fall in love, but he had hoped that she'd come to realize that maybe he was someone she could trust. Someone who could be her friend. And love couldn't exist without friendship and trust.

Grimacing slightly at how his inner voice sounded so much like his sister's right now, Chuck quickly picked up the dram of brandy that the barmaid slapped down on the table. He took a large swallow, then coughed. The brandy burned like fire down his throat; obviously the barmaid hadn't liked him enough to give him the good spirits.

Which shouldn't be surprising. After all, he was just Chuck Carmichael. He might be intelligent and loyal and kind of funny, but those qualities didn't really matter much. Not when money, rank and beauty were the keys to any closed door. And since he didn't possess any of those keys, he was left to beg for scraps.

He took another gulp of the brandy, trying to ignore his maudlin thoughts. This time, the brandy went down a trifle easier, creating a pleasant warmth in his belly. It helped ease the ache he felt inside.

Thank God he hadn't given in to the urge to kiss Sarah. That would have made things even worse. His words had been bad enough. But if he had taken her face in his hands and kissed her like he wanted to-like he had wanted since their first kiss-it would have been impossible for them to ignore what had happened. To ignore the words they'd each said: Chuck's declaration of his feelings for her and Sarah's refusal to admit whether she did have feelings for him.

All he could hope was that they could find some way to keep working together, to finish the mission and preserve the Queen's throne. And then he could crawl away and hope that getting over Lady Sarah Walker wouldn't take the rest of his life. That is, if he was lucky enough to finish this assignment without losing his life.

With a sigh, Chuck wrapped his hands around his tumbler and took a slow sip. He just wanted to get through the next few weeks, get through this job, and survive. The most important thing was surviving. He didn't want to leave Eleanor alone, even though she had a wonderful new husband. He didn't want to miss out on seeing Morgan find his place in the world and make a success of himself. His natural optimism made him admit, even now, that life was very sweet. And without any knowledge of the next world beyond what he had heard in church, Chuck wasn't ready to risk the chance that Heaven would be better than Earth.

Now he knew he was getting drunk, Chuck thought in dark amusement. He got very blasphemous when he over-imbibed.

Chuck finished off his brandy and turned his mug over. "Another!" he called out to the barmaid, who obliged him. He sipped this one slowly, letting himself fall into a pleasant, unthinking drunkenness. It was easier this way.

For all he knew, he sat there for hours. He was nearly asleep in his cups, in a literal manner, when Morgan hurried in.

"Chuck!" His friend's voice was full of relief. "I've been looking all over for you-you got a message and I thought it might be from Sarah, so I-"

Morgan stopped talking as Chuck slowly lifted his head and focused on the small bearded man. "Morrrgan," Chuck slurred. "S-sorry . . ."

"You're drinking in the middle of the day." The pity in his friend's voice was too much for Chuck, and he looked to see if any of the tankards had some remaining brandy. But suddenly Morgan swept them all to the side, sitting down across from Chuck at the table.

"Buddy, what happened?" he asked, looking at Chuck with worry in his eyes.

He sighed heavily. How could he explain what a massive failure he was to his best friend? Could he bear to have Morgan, his lifelong companion, look at him and see his true self? Maybe it was time. Maybe that was how Morgan would grow up, find his own path, see that Chuck was no model for himself.

"I screwed up. Big time," Chuck said, propping his head up on his hand. "I tried to convince Sarah that she loves me, but she doesn't care about me at all. Not even a little bit."

"That's hard to believe. After all, you're Chuck! You're great: handsome and funny and smart-"

"No, I'm not," he said, trying to glare at Morgan but unable to do it. Getting mad at Morgan always made him feel like scum.

"Yes, you are! And if Sarah doesn't like you, it's her problem."

He shook his head. "She's amazing and beautiful and perfect. I don't know why I thought she could like me."

"Chuck, clearly it's the-" Morgan picked up one of the tumblers and took a sniff, then shuddered. "The brandy is doing the talking right now. Once you get over this, you'll realize that you are a good man and that whatever happened with Sarah, you can fix it."

Rubbing a hand over his face, Chuck tried to consider Morgan's words. Could he fix this? Was it even possible that Sarah would want to be his friend after what he said earlier today? He wasn't very sure about that. But like Eleanor always said, where there was life there was hope.

And if Eleanor was here, she would be very annoyed that in his head, she spoke in proverbs.

Unable to resist a small grin, Chuck felt his spirits rising slightly. So getting drunk wasn't the best way of dealing with what happened. But it had given him some time to not think. And now it seemed to be the time to stop wallowing and get back to acting like the adult he was. The first step, he thought, would be facing up to whatever Sarah had to say to him. So he held his hand out to Morgan.

"Let me have the letter."

"Are you positive you want to see it now, Chuck?" Morgan asked, prevaricating a little. "Maybe you should just wait until you're sober and back on your feet."

Chuck shrugged. "It won't hurt any less if I'm sober."

"Point," Morgan conceded before pulling a rectangle of parchment out of his doublet. "I'm going to get us some meat pies. You need food to soak up the liquor."

Morgan had some strange theories, Chuck thought to himself as he looked at the letter. He frowned as he took in the sharp, angular handwriting, so different from Sarah's rounded, flowing script. This definitely wasn't from her. Whether he felt relief or disappointment, Chuck wasn't sure. Instead of pondering that much further, though, he turned the letter over and broke the plain wax seal.

Opening the letter and smoothing the folds, he began to read, feeling his stomach drop at the words scrawled over the paper.

"_Be __careful__, __Carmichael_," the letter began with no salutation. "_Your __bearded __servant __is __a __bad __courier __for __important __documents__. __We __left __him __unharmed __yesterday __as __a __courtesy__, __but __if __he __continues __to __carry __your __letters __he __might __fall __victim __to __an __accident__. __And __be __warned __that __many __eyes __are __focused __on __you __as __the __newest __member __of __the __Earl __of __Lincoln__'__s __staff__. __If __any __attack __was __made __upon __the __Earl __or __his __dependents__, __suspicion __and __blame __would __automatically __fall __upon __you__. __So __be __careful __and __be __wise__._"

His eyes must be the size of saucers, Chuck thought dimly as he stared at the paper. He read it again, trying to figure out if this was a joke or a prank. But everything about the letter radiated seriousness: the cold, clear-minded purpose of a zealot. Someone who was devoted, body and soul, to preserving a secret plot. And that someone was determined to let nothing stand in their way.

He could feel his chest heaving a little as he tried to breathe. This person was threatening him and threatening Morgan. And Chuck believed that this unknown letter writer would follow through on the threats if necessary. Which would mean-

No. He wouldn't let that happen. Chuck swallowed, feeling an icy determination fill him. He would not let anyone harm Morgan.

More than his fight with Sarah, this anonymous epistle proved that Chuck had erred severely by sending Morgan to Sir Francis's house. But with Morgan's life on the line, Chuck would do everything he could to deflect attention from his friend. He would be the best intelligencer he could be, he would follow every rule to the letter. And he would put aside his feelings for Sarah.

It wouldn't be easy. In fact, it might be the hardest thing he had ever done. But as Chuck watched Morgan attempt to flirt with the barmaids before walking back to their table with two meat pies, he knew that his best friend was worth it. The potential for his own happiness couldn't compare to the life of the man Chuck had known since he was five years old.

Chuck quickly folded the letter up and shoved it into his doublet. He smiled at Morgan, trying to act normal, like everything was all right. "The pies look good."

"Nice and fresh, right out of the oven!" Morgan said, sliding one over to Chuck. "What did Sarah have to say?"

He scrambled for some lie to tell Morgan. "Actually, it wasn't from Sarah."

Morgan looked curious. "It wasn't?"

"No," Chuck said, shaking his head. "I guess I'll have to find another way to apologize to Sarah."

His best friend nodded. "Here's what I think you should do, Chuck," he began, before stringing together an improbable yet oddly romantic plan to win back Sarah.

And as he nodded and smiled, as he watched his friend as he ate his dinner, Chuck was convinced that he was making the right decision. Even if it meant the end of his hopes for a relationship with Sarah.

End, Chapter 4


	6. Chapter 5

**Ready ****at ****Your ****Hand****, ****Chapter**** 5 (6/10)**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: In the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, a Catholic plot against the queen comes to the attention of spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham. To protect Elizabeth, he develops an unusual plan: hide the passing of intelligence between two agents by a false romance. When Lady Sarah Walker and Chuck Carmichael meet, though, their pretend flirtation becomes much more.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author****'****s ****Note**: Thanks to everyone who's been following along with this story! The story starts getting much darker in this chapter, so I hope you're curious to see what happens next.

XXX

"Hear all reports but trust not all."

Sir Francis Walsingham

XXX

The next week was a quiet one. Although he knew he should immediately tell Sarah and Sir Francis about the anonymous letter he had received, Chuck chose instead to hold back on that revelation for now. It was partly out of an overabundance of caution. If he was being watched, he had to be more careful in his movements, going about his daily routine while carrying out his part of the mission.

And if it allowed him time apart from Sarah, so much the better.

Chuck sighed as he contemplated the report in front of him. It was very late and London had grown quiet. But while Morgan snored, he was detailing the strange interactions he had observed at the Earl of Lincoln's home this week. Individually, each action could perhaps be explained away. Taken collectively, they presented a pattern of unusual behavior.

Ambassador Mendoza had repeated his visit to the Earl's house, but at a time when the Earl was away from home. Chuck had been eating lunch when he heard Decker muttering in the corridor about having to decant a new bottle of "that dreadful Spanish wine." His curiosity aroused, Chuck had slipped out of the kitchen and done his best to follow Decker without attracting attention. All Chuck had learned was that Count Mendoza was visiting with the Countess and they spoke a language Chuck didn't know. He assumed it was Spanish.

A few days after that conversation, Chuck was sorting the mail when he spotted the same handwriting he had seen on the letter he had copied for Sir Francis. This one was directed to the Countess, not the Earl. Unfortunately, Mr. Milbarge had asked him for today's letters at that very moment, so Chuck had turned over all the mail to his boss. It was a shame that he hadn't been able to copy it, but at least the letter's existence was something he could pass along. Not to mention the fact that the letter was for the Countess.

He took up his pen and wrote his concluding remarks. It appeared that the plotters had first attempted to compel the Earl to join their plot. For some reason-maybe the Earl had rebuffed them or they had simply changed tactics-the traitors had then focused on the Countess of Lincoln, where the ground appeared to be more fertile. That is, if the visits from Ambassador Mendoza and the conversation in Spanish was anything to judge by. This was all rather shocking, since the Countess was one of the Queen's dearest friends. But there definitely seemed to be enough evidence to cast suspicion upon the Countess.

It was also time for him to finally share the threat that had been made against his best friend. He had done his best to protect Morgan over the last week without arousing any suspicions within the bearded man. The fact that there were only a few days until Chuck received his first quarter's pay helped with that task. Their funds, although supplemented by Morgan's work, were stretched to the limit, so they were eating in Mrs. Beckman's kitchen and avoiding amusements.

Morgan was growing restless, but Chuck had promised him that once he got paid, they would go out for an evening of fun. By that point, Sir Francis hopefully would have provided Chuck with some advice on how to protect Morgan.

Crouching over his desk, Chuck leaned closer to the pages in front of him. On a sheet of blotting paper he had written his remarks, switching between French and Latin. Now he was encoding them in his letter, carefully putting his words into cipher. As soon as he finished, he could go to bed.

As he wrote, he rubbed a little at his beard, which was shaggy and unkempt. He would have to trim it tomorrow, before he went to the palace, since Sarah-

The moment her name crossed his mind, Chuck squeezed his eyes shut. With the prospect of seeing her on the morrow, it was hard for him to hold on to his shaky equilibrium. The simplest thing could make him think of her: a flash of blonde hair, a rich-looking dress, a blooming flower in a clay pot.

Although he knew so little about her, it didn't seem to matter. He had the barest outline of her life before she became a member of the Queen's household. He knew so little of what she liked, what she enjoyed. And most of what he did know was based on his observations of her-observations that could be incorrect, after all.

What he did know, however, was intriguing. She was reserved but not cold, loyal but not blindly so. Sarah had a heart that cared strongly and deeply about those people she allowed into it-but perhaps as a result, she allowed only a few to gain entry to the ranks of those whom she cared about. Her friend Catherine, Sir Francis, the Queen: the list was short. He wanted to know why she held herself apart, why she had such passion and emotion but kept it tamped down, holding those emotions and herself under such firm control.

Lady Sarah Walker was a mystery. But he had to accept that she was a mystery that he would never get to solve. It was essential that he kept telling himself that fact. He needed to stay on the footing that Sarah herself wanted. Not just because he was trying to honor and respect her, although he was. But because she was right: they were two people who had been thrown together under unusual circumstances and that did not mean that there was a deeper connection between them.

Once this assignment was over, he would find another position, one that wasn't part of Sir Francis's network of spies and informants. He was glad that he could do his part to help the spymaster on this mission, but Chuck doubted that he was cut out for such a life. He wasn't like Sarah.

Taking a deep breath, Chuck made himself push aside Sarah and focus on finishing his work. It only took a few minutes; once he was done, Chuck folded the papers into a small bundle and slid them into the sleeve of his black doublet. He would visit the palace first thing tomorrow and deliver his report.

Gratefully, Chuck extinguished the small candle on his desk and carefully navigated around Morgan to climb into the bed. He stretched out on his back, accustomed to his feet hanging over the end of the mattress, and tugged the covers up as high as they would go. Although he was quite exhausted, Chuck found it difficult to fall asleep. His thoughts kept wanting to turn towards tomorrow and his first interaction with Sarah since their disagreement, but he ruthlessly quashed them as best as he could. Somehow, he managed to calm himself enough to drop off to sleep.

XXX

When the sun rose the next morning, Chuck pulled himself from his bed and prepared for his day, being careful to transfer his report into his pocket when Morgan was in the privy. He took the time to trim his beard-not for Sarah, he told himself, but because he needed to look well-groomed when he visited the palace and because Mr. Milbarge had looked at him with an extra dose of sneer yesterday due to his unkempt appearance.

To his dismay, a button popped off his black doublet as he pulled it on. With the already-loose trim, there was no possibility of wearing it today. Chuck sighed and took it off, putting it aside for Morgan to repair. He had avoided wearing his red doublet because whenever he looked at it, he heard Sarah's soft voice expressing her preference for that garment. But it couldn't be helped.

He finished getting dressed, planning out what he should and shouldn't say to Sarah. No mention of his emotions, no long gazes whether she was looking at him or not, nothing that would burden her with his feelings. He didn't believe her when she said she felt nothing for him, but regardless of that, he needed to remember the mission. With the threat to Morgan, protecting the Queen also meant protecting his best friend. And for his friends and family, Chuck would put himself and what he wanted aside.

"Looking good, Chuck," Morgan said, grinning at him. "Finally going to see Sarah, huh?"

"I told you, Morgan, it's all over with Sarah," he said, tugging a little on his cuffs.

Morgan snorted. "I'll believe that when you're not moping around here, looking all moony-eyed. As soon as you get paid, buddy, we're going to have some fun."

Chuck gave Morgan a small smile. "Deal. I need to go. You're working at the baker's again today?"

"Yep," Morgan said. "I like it."

"That's wonderful news, Morgan," he said, checking his pockets for his small money-pouch and his pen case. "Have a good day."

"You too, Chuck, you too!"

With Morgan's enthusiastic words ringing in his ears, Chuck did his best to make that happen. He stepped out of the lodging house with as much jauntiness as he could feign, heading straight for the nearby ferry landing. Once he had acquired a ride, he sat quietly as the ferryman rowed him towards Greenwich.

His silent warnings to himself, to remember what he needed to do, were all he thought about once he was at the palace. By now, he had learned enough to know the quickest way to the gardens where Sarah usually walked during the early morning hours. He made himself stride with a firm step, not shirking from what he knew would be an awkward, uncomfortable encounter.

He let his pace slow as he entered the garden, looking around for any sign of Sarah. When he spotted her, he squared his shoulders and walked towards her. She was sitting on a bench, some sewing forgotten on her lap as she talked with Catherine. They were in such deep conversation that she didn't notice him until he was within a few yards of the bench. When he saw her stiffen, he knew she had spotted him. He guessed that she must have told Catherine about their fight, because she didn't try to paste on a smile and act like everything was normal.

"Lady Sarah, Lady Catherine," he said quietly, bowing to them as they rose from the bench. "Forgive me for interrupting."

"That's not what you should be begging forgiveness for," Catherine muttered as she curtsied. He saw Sarah give her friend a slight nudge before turning to face him.

"Mr. Carmichael," Sarah said, her body held awkwardly, as if she uncharacteristically wanted to start fidgeting. "Catherine, would you leave us alone, please?"

Catherine said something softly to Sarah, who nodded and smiled weakly at her friend. Then, with a cutting glare aimed at Chuck, Catherine stepped aside and walked away.

As soon as they were alone, Sarah's smile vanished. She folded her hands in front of her and spoke quietly. "All of Court has been talking about our argument."

He felt a pang of guilt at her words. Being part of the Queen's household meant Sarah must have spent this week subjected to many questions about their relationship. Any doubts they might have put to rest with their dance last Saturday had probably been reawakened due to their fight the next day. And it appeared to him that the strain was weighing heavily on Sarah. Her skin seemed even paler than usual, making the light purple shadows under her eyes quite noticeable.

They would need to repair the damage first. Chuck glanced around, noting a few individuals close enough to observe their actions. One of them was Lady Mary, the little maid of honour who Sarah claimed was an enormous gossip.

Thinking quickly, he turned back to face Sarah as an idea formed in his mind, cobbled together from badly-written broadsides and a play he had grudgingly seen with Morgan. He whispered, "Just follow my lead." She looked confused at his words, then her expression became absolutely shocked when he kneeled at her feet and took both of her hands in his.

"Lady Sarah," he said loudly, "please forgive me for my boorish behavior last week. The Lord's Day is not the right time for such words as I spoke to you, and while I do not deserve your forgiveness, I hope you might find it in your heart to accept my sincerest apologies." He knew his words sounded stilted and melodramatic, but he was trying to give the onlookers a scene, one that would put to rest any rumors of their relationship's demise.

Not for nothing was Lady Sarah Walker the well-trained protégé of Sir Francis Walsingham. She pitched her voice loudly, her words carrying easily towards those who trying to act like they weren't edging closer. "Oh, Mr. Carmichael. I am just as much at fault as you, for tempting you as I did. I will accept your apology only if you will accept my own."

Chuck leaned forward and quickly kissed the back of each of her hands, imitating a move from the play. Then he stood up quickly and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. "Sorry," he whispered in her ear. "That will help all the gossip, right?"

He was close enough to her that he could feel her take a deep breath. He closed his eyes, trying not to let himself be swayed by her scent, by her warmth. Fortunately, Sarah was wearing the high-necked, long-sleeved blue dress that she had worn at their first meeting. Otherwise, he might not be able to control his body's reactions to her. And it was still a struggle regardless.

"Yes . . . yes, that should be enough," Sarah said quietly. She pulled away, the wide, happy smile on her face at odds with her troubled eyes, before taking his arm. Pressing her fingers hard against his elbow, she led him towards a small, sheltered grove of trees. Once they were out of sight of any observers, she quickly dropped his arm and stepped back.

"That was very clever," she said, looking at him uneasily.

"I hadn't realized how our-our disagreement might have affected the image we have been presenting to Court," Chuck said, choosing his words carefully. "I apologize if this week has been difficult."

"No, there's no need for an apology," she said. "Although I appreciate it."

For some reason, Chuck was reminded of their first conversation, in this very garden. Like this discussion, it had been stilted. But that time, there hadn't been the memory of a shattering conversation hanging between them.

But none of that mattered, Chuck reminded himself. He was simply here to give Sarah his report. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the thick packet and held it out to her. "If you would be so good to pass this along to Sir Francis, as quickly as possible?"

Once again, she looked confused. Not just confused, though-a hint of annoyance, as well as some emotion he couldn't pin down, flitted over her face. But she took the papers and nodded. "I shall."

"Thank you," he said. He let himself look at her for a moment, then he swallowed. "I suppose we've been out of view long enough for everyone to think we've fully made up after our fight."

A small wrinkle appeared in the middle of her forehead, completing the portrait of an utterly bewildered Lady Sarah Walker. "Chuck-" she said softly, before biting her lower lip and giving her head a shake. "Yes, you're right," she said.

"Good," he said, turning to leave but then pausing. Even putting aside the feelings he wouldn't allow himself to feel, he still should probably explain himself for the sake of the mission and his best friend. He turned back towards her. "I'm being watched. I-I received an anonymous letter after Morgan delivered my last report and . . . and it contained a threat against him."

Sarah's face shifted, the light of clarity appearing in her expression. "I'm very sorry to hear that," she said. "I'm sure Sir Francis will tell us what to do."

"I've tried to be careful and protect him, but I would like some advice," Chuck admitted.

"Of course you would," Sarah said. "I will work as quickly as I can."

Chuck felt his shoulders relax from their tense position. Being able to share his fears with someone was a relief. Sir Francis was so capable and savvy, he was bound to have ways of protecting Morgan. And it was nice to see Sarah showing signs of care about his friend.

"When do you think Sir Francis might have an answer for me?" he asked.

She thought for a moment. "I would expect to have a response by the day after tomorrow. There's another concert that evening here in the palace-why don't you attend? It would be good for the Court to see us together."

"I can do that," Chuck said, hoping the words sounded convincing. "Until then, Lady Sarah." He bowed to her again and withdrew from the grove.

He walked quickly towards the ferry landing. He should have enough time to reach the Earl's home before Mr. Milbarge expected him. That would fit with the pattern he had formed over the last week. And hopefully, his visit to the palace would not strike any watchers as unusual, given his relationship with Sarah.

It would seem that in the eyes of the Court, their relationship was now re-established. Attending the concert in two days would solidify the work they had done this morning. And Chuck felt confident that maybe, just maybe, he could do this. That he could work with Sarah without letting his feelings rule him.

It wasn't like him to detach himself from his emotions. He wasn't sure if he liked it, but that didn't seem to matter. Perhaps in exchange for becoming part of London, for joining this new adult world, it was necessary for him to be less sensitive and more logical. Right now, in the midst of this assignment, it was hard to tell what was required. But once he had completed his part and said goodbye to Sarah, he would determine if this was the kind of life he wanted to live.

XXX

With a quiet sigh, Sarah finished styling her hair and took in her appearance. Tonight the Queen was entertaining various ambassadors to her court, so the members of the household were expected to look their best as an example of England's glory. Therefore, she was wearing her white silk dress, the finest frock in her wardrobe. Her best ruff, made of fine lace, extended from her neck and shoulders. There were pearls hanging from her earlobes and a strand of the same gems woven through her upswept hair. Last but not least, there were small diamond pins decorating the neckline and skirt of her dress.

It was all a bit much for Sarah; she preferred to look less showy. But it was the Queen's command for all her ladies to look especially rich tonight, so Sarah had obeyed. She would wait upon the Queen and be part of the dazzling display, her thoughts hidden behind a pretty mask.

If it had been up to her, she would have stayed in her room tonight, avoiding the gala event, avoiding all the questions that would be asked about her renewed relationship with Chuck. And maybe in the quiet of her chamber, she would be able to figure out why she felt so lost and adrift, no longer sailing towards her future harbor with the wind at her back and the North Star to guide her.

Ever since Chuck's visit yesterday, Sarah had been thinking upon their encounter. From the moment she laid eyes on him, it was like she was looking at a different person. First he coolly put himself on display, apologizing for their argument in a dramatic fashion. It was exactly the right approach to take in this situation; it was what she had planned to do when she saw him again. But for some reason, having him just appear in the garden without any warning had made her throat close up.

What was even more surprising, though, was how calm he was. How . . . remote. It wasn't just the melodramatic apology for their argument-it was how he acted when they were alone. There were no smiles, no sparkling eyes, no little jokes to coax a laugh from her. He was serious and focused. She could see the glimmer of the intelligencer he could be. And she thought he could be very good.

Chuck was clearly more than capable of being a spy if he wanted to do so. If he was willing to leave behind his family and friends, study and train harder than he had at Cambridge, and be prepared to make decisions he would never make under normal circumstances, he could be a spy.

Sarah looked down at her hands. And even though a tiny part of her was incredibly curious to see that version of Chuck, she knew it would never happen. He didn't want to give up his life here in England and he didn't think he was capable of being a spy. And knowing that he didn't want that kind of life for himself . . . she felt a dizzying rush of relief.

Because she didn't want him to be like other men, the ones who would take this opportunity and chase it blindly, not thinking about anyone but themselves. She admired him for being so worried about his best friend that everything else didn't matter. For considering other people and their needs before he thought about his own. It was the sort of attitude that the nobility should have, and so few nobles actually possessed.

"Sarah?" Catherine rushed into the room, tugging at her royal blue frock. "I need your help! I let that charming bounder talk me into a row on the Thames and now I'm going to be late!"

The interruption was a welcome break from her thoughts. Sarah smiled and rose from her dressing table. "The dressing gong still hasn't sounded. You have enough time." She quickly began unlacing Catherine's dress.

"That is the last time I let that handsome cad sweet-talk me," Catherine said, bouncing a little on her toes. "To think, he has the gall to take me out on the river and then tell me he's getting married!"

"I thought you said death was preferable to marriage?" Sarah asked, working quickly.

"It is! But just because he's getting married doesn't mean we have to stop seeing each other. But he thinks differently." Catherine yanked a jeweled brooch off her dress and threw it towards her dressing table. "And I was fool enough to take his little trinket."

This wasn't the first time she had seen Catherine act this way at the end of a love affair. So Sarah knew what to do in order to settle down Catherine. Yet in the back of her mind, she found herself thinking about how grateful she was that Chuck wasn't like Catherine's latest flame or the other men that Sarah had met at court.

XXX

It seemed to be a law that the more powerful the attendees at one of the Queen's events were, the more boring the event was. As she sipped from a glass of wine, Sarah reflected on how that law was being proven yet again tonight.

In the intimate drawing room, ambassadors and Privy Councillors mingled, drinking wine and eating exotic sweetmeats. The Queen moved around the room, exchanging _bon__mots_ with the ambassadors and joining any conversation she found worthy of her attention. The conversations were wide-ranging, wrangling over who the future Archbishop of Canterbury might be, talking about the current political situation in France and wondering what Sir Humphrey Gilbert might find on his voyage to the New World. On a lighter note, there was praise and criticism of the last play performed by Queen Elizabeth's Men at court. But even with such engaging topics, Sarah had yet to hear anything truly interesting as she stood near the Queen, her stiletto carefully hidden in the sleeve of her dress.

She was bored. She wished she could be elsewhere. And she found herself looking around for Chuck, although she would let herself be put to death before admitting that fact.

He might make this evening interesting. He was well-read; he often mentioned books and pamphlets that he hoped to read once he had the funds to visit bookstores. If he had been listening to these conversations, she suspected he would find some connection that no one else had made, make a point that few had even considered. And even if all he did was listen, Sarah knew that he would be so focused on whomever was speaking that whatever the speaker said would seem more insightful and more remarkable.

With a small frown, Sarah lifted her glass, but then thought better of it. This was her third cup of wine, and it seemed to be having an outsized effect on her. Setting down her goblet, she turned to the next passing waiter and took some sugared berries, eating them slowly.

"If you ever visit Spain, Lady Sarah, you would find fruit so sweet that it has no need for the added sugar."

Inwardly, Sarah sighed. She had hoped to avoid Count Mendoza tonight, although she had accepted it would be quite difficult to achieve such a feat in the close quarters of the drawing room. Fortunately, she knew all too well how to hide being caught unaware by the approach of an undesired suitor.

So she turned to face the Spanish ambassador, falling into the airy, graceful manner that suited a maid of honour to Queen Elizabeth of England, Ireland and France.

"While I am sure that the fruits of Spain are remarkable, Count Mendoza, I find I am too much an Englishwoman to fully appreciate them. Oranges are from Seville, for example, yet I find them to be anything but civil to me." She mock-pouted, playing her part and hoping her simpering was convincing.

"You simply need to become accustomed to them, my lady. It would be my pleasure to provide you with the finest of Spain's fruits and flowers, so you might discover a land whose beauty matches your own." Although his words were those of a lover, his cold, dark eyes and flat voice were not at all lover-like.

"I would not dream of imposing upon you in such a manner, Count Mendoza," she said, curtsying slightly.

"It would be no imposition. It would be my greatest pleasure," he said, his hand reaching out and grasping her wrist firmly.

This wasn't the first time that the Count had engaged in such flirtation with her-if it could be called flirtation-but usually he let her rebuff him. Tonight, though, he seemed determined to stay the course. Sarah looked at him, wishing they could speak plainly, so she could ascertain just what he wanted from her. If he was merely hoping to achieve a sexual conquest, his approach would not sway even the most willing of lightskirts. If it was marriage, it could only be due to his belief that the bonds of holy matrimony were the only way she would be willing to consent to sexual relations. It had to all come down to sex-Sarah could not think of any other reason for the ambassador's attentions towards her, a woman without much wealth or social status.

She did her best to draw her arm away from his grip, but he refused to let her go. "Excuse me, Count, yet I believe Mr. Carmichael would object to this." She gestured towards their unfortunately-joined hands.

"Ahh, Mr. Carmichael," Mendoza drawled, a spark appearing in his eyes. "How good of you to bring him up. It allows me to warn you, Lady Sarah."

"Warn me?" she repeated quietly, knowing that her surprise had managed to leak into her voice.

He nodded. "Yes, Lady Sarah. To warn you." The count stepped closer to her. "What sort of man do you believe Mr. Carmichael to be? Honest, trustworthy? The sort of man your _madre_-your mother-told you to give your heart to?" He shook his head. "I am afraid you have misjudged Mr. Carmichael."

Acting confused, even frightened, would be how a typical lady-in-waiting would react to this situation. On the inside, Sarah actually felt the cold fingers of fear touch her heart briefly as her mind raced to untangle her thoughts. It could be that Count Mendoza saw Chuck as a rival for her affections and wished to improve his standing with her by raising doubts about Chuck. She was sure that was what the ambassador wanted her to think. But somehow, Sarah's instincts worried that there was more to Mendoza's warning than a suitor seeking to damage the man who had apparently romanced her.

And if that was true, then the only possible explanation would be that Mendoza knew about Chuck's role in uncovering the plot against the Queen. Which meant that Mendoza was one of the plotters. It made complete sense: as the Spanish representative at court, Mendoza and his master, King Philip, would naturally support the claims of Mary, Queen of Scots to the throne of England. If the Scottish Queen was installed as England's queen, she would return the nation to Catholicism, thereby becoming a puppet in the hands of Philip.

Yet if Mendoza knew about Chuck, why would he warn her about him? What was his point in this conversation? Perhaps she was just jumping to conclusions, ascribing evil intentions to the count because she instinctively recoiled from him. Sarah didn't understand what was going on. She had to question the count in such a way that would not alert him to her true role.

"D-do you know something about Mr. Carmichael?" Sarah asked, injecting a tremble into her voice.

Count Mendoza looked around the room with a bored expression, his air one of practiced nonchalance. "You are a beautiful, attractive woman, Lady Sarah. Any man who won your heart should know what a prize it is. So you must guard yourself from any who would take advantage of you."

"I don't understand," Sarah said, managing to free herself from his grasp. She was growing frustrated with his evasions, yet she had to handle him carefully. "Please tell me plainly, Count Mendoza. I would appreciate your wisdom on this matter."

The flattery, slight as it was, seemed to be enough for the ambassador. He drew close to her. "I regret to say that Mr. Carmichael is . . . perhaps I should not share this with you, but I believe it is the mark of an unworthy man when he lies to a woman such as you." He paused for a moment. "Mr. Carmichael is trying to overthrow your queen."

If this was any other situation, Sarah might not be able to restrain her laughter. Count Mendoza was accusing Chuck, of all people, of treason. It was a ridiculous notion, one that she would discount even if she didn't know the truth about Chuck. But Count Mendoza wasn't expecting such a reaction from her.

She made her eyes go wide and breathed deeply, feeling her chest heave. "No . . ." she said, making her voice sound heartbroken.

He took a moment to reply, not speaking until his eyes had looked his fill of her cleavage like almost any other man would, a reaction she had counted on. Then he placed his hand heavily on her shoulder. "I am very sorry, Lady Sarah, to bear such sad news. I know that you are a true and honest subject of Her Majesty, so such a revelation must be shocking to you."

Sarah shook her head. "I-I don't believe this."

"Mr. Carmichael works for the Earl of Lincoln," the count said, leaning in towards her, close enough that she could feel his breath faintly over her neck. "You know the Earl's wife is held in high regard by the Queen-yet the Countess has kept concealed her true sentiments. She is a member of the old religion and wants to return your country to the glory of Queen Mary's reign." The ambassador paused. "Of course, I am only stating what I understand to be their goals, not my own feelings, you understand."

It was all she could do not to snort and reveal her reaction to the count's blatant falsehood. But that was the last thing she could do, even though it would feel very satisfying. So Sarah forced some tears into her eyes. "I beg your pardon, sir, but I, I must withdraw and consider what you have told me. But do know I hold myself in your debt for alerting me to Mr. Carmichael's nature."

"It is nothing, Lady Sarah," he said silkily. "Might I further warn you that you should not alert Mr. Carmichael, or tell anyone, of this conversation?"

"Yes, yes," Sarah said, hoping she sounded distracted and upset.

"Then good evening, Lady Sarah," he said, slowly removing his hand by letting his fingers trail part way down her arm. She held back a shudder and curtsied in response to his bow.

"Good evening, Count Mendoza," she said before turning and leaving the room as quickly as possible.

Once she was in the corridor, Sarah paused, wondering where to go. She was expected to wait upon the Queen until the end of tonight's gathering. Only an absence of short duration could be explained away, such as a visit to the privy or returning to her room to fix something with her dress. But she needed more time than that. She would have to take the chance that her absence would not be noticed.

Taking a few deep breaths, she slipped into an unused room down the hall. She needed some peace and quiet to process what she had just learned.

So Count Mendoza thought Chuck was a traitor. And he was convinced enough of its validity to tell her. She still wasn't sure why Mendoza told her, though. Was he just acting as a jealous suitor? Or was there something more to his warning?

For just a moment, a single solitary moment, Sarah wondered if Chuck might be a double agent, if he might-

No. No, that was ridiculous, Sarah thought. There was no more evidence than the count's word, and when that was compared to Chuck's actions and words, she couldn't believe the count's accusation to be true. It was impossible that Chuck was actually working for Count Mendoza or the other plotters.

For she was now sure that just as Sir Francis suspected, the Spanish ambassador was working against Queen Elizabeth. It was a remarkable strategy, to reveal the details of the plot to an outsider, but the manner in which Mendoza had done so offered several rewards for himself. By accusing Chuck, the count knew that any suspicion towards himself would be seen as less important than investigating Chuck. It let the Count appear dedicated to preserving Queen Elizabeth's throne. And if it allowed him to gain whatever he wanted from her, so much the better.

It was a good strategy. But Count Mendoza's mistake was to reveal the plot details to someone who was already fully aware of the plot, who was working to uncover that very plot. She felt a rush of excitement. Finally, she was getting to play an actual role in this assignment, more than just the simple courier and guard she had been to this point. Because this information could prove to be vital to their mission.

She was eager to share her interpretation of the conversation with Sir Francis and wished that he was in attendance at tonight's gathering. Under cover of their long-standing and well-known relationship, they could have discussed the Spanish ambassador's actions and her mentor could have passed judgment on her. It might have been enough to prove that she was capable of performing more advanced tasks than Sir Francis had assigned her so far.

There was a sense of relief at having something to distract her from Chuck. From wondering why she couldn't stop thinking of him, from thinking about why he seemed so different from other men. Contemplating how her body reacted to his and how she liked spending time with him had taken up entirely too much of her mind lately. Now, with something important to do, she could focus on her future and what she actually wanted.

Unfortunately, Sir Francis was not here tonight, so she would have to content herself with sending him a letter via John Casey. And hopefully, Casey would have Sir Francis's response to Chuck's last report. One with advice on how they could protect Chuck's friend without jeopardizing the mission.

With her thoughts at least somewhat in order, Sarah hurried up to her bedchamber to scratch out a note to Sir Francis. She had seen John Casey in the drawing room standing guard; they could exchange letters before Sarah returned to her duties. Suddenly, this boring evening had become much more interesting.

XXX

Chuck tugged on his brand-new doublet, feeling both awkward and pleased. When he had gotten paid today, the coins clinking in his pocket was the best sound in the world. It had been a shame to part with some of them, but as Morgan was still struggling to repair his black doublet, it had seemed more practical to purchase a new one. Plus, both his red and black doublets were of thick, heavy material and caused him to sweat profusely when he visited the crowded rooms at Court.

So now he had a blue-grey doublet, fashioned from a lightweight wool that was comfortable and, according to the clerk he had bought the doublet from, fashionable. True, it was plain and unembellished, but that could be taken care of later. And although this put off the purchase of a book he was eager to read, Chuck thought that the boost to his confidence made the new article of clothing worth every penny.

And tonight, he would need that sort of assistance to get through an evening spent in Sarah's company.

He took a deep breath as he walked up to the palace from the ferry landing. With his concern about Morgan and the excitement of his first payday, Chuck had been able to keep his thoughts away from Sarah and what she might be thinking after their last meeting. He knew he had surprised and confused her, and that she hadn't expected him to act in the manner that he had. Telling her about the threat against Morgan had helped her to understand, but he had still detected a hint of puzzlement in her eyes. As though she was struggling to figure him out.

It was probably a case of seeing what he wanted to see. Sarah had made herself very plain: she did not welcome the feelings she had for him. Since he would not pressure her, the only option he had was to bury his own feelings, to push them aside and focus on completing their assignment. That was what Sarah wanted, so he was going to do his best to give her just that.

As he entered into the palace, two guards stopped him from proceeding. "State your name and business," said one of the guards, a large man nearly the same height as Chuck but with much more muscle and bulk about him. He was the last person that Chuck would want to encounter in a dark alley.

"Um, Charles Carmichael," he said, trying not to stutter. "I was invited to the concert tonight by Lady Sarah Walker?"

The half-giant, half-guard exchanged glances with his companion, then looked at Chuck and gave him a small smirk. "Have a good evening, Mr. Carmichael." The guard moved aside, clearing a path for Chuck.

"Thank you," he said quickly, scurrying past the guards. He thought he heard a grunt as he passed, but perhaps it was only his imagination.

Joining the throng, Chuck stepped into the large chamber that had been prepared for the concert. At one end of the room was a raised platform, to serve as a stage. The rest of the space was taken up with seats for the audience. Chuck noticed that the closer to the stage, the more luxurious the seating. Right in front of the stage was a large, overstuffed group of chairs-he assumed that would be where the Queen would sit. There were clusters of armchairs which gave way to dainty-looking chairs with high backs, until at the back of the room were nothing but simple wooden benches.

In a nutshell, it was the court of Queen Elizabeth. The higher your rank, the easier your seat. Chuck felt the corners of his mouth tug in a small smile at the visual, then began searching the room for Sarah.

With his height, it was easy to spot her. She was in the far corner of the room, listening as her friend Catherine talked animatedly. As always, he felt that same pang of love when he looked at her. That first reaction didn't seem likely to go away and Chuck had made peace with that. But it made him all the more determined to not show his feelings when he spoke to her.

Navigating carefully through the crowd, avoiding servants with trays of glasses and lords accompanying their ladies, Chuck reached Sarah and Catherine in a few moments. He bowed low, conscious of the eyes on him. "Lady Sarah, Lady Catherine."

"Mr. Carmichael," Lady Catherine said, her voice saucy. "No flowers this time?"

"Um, no . . ." he said, looking back and forth between Catherine and Sarah. "Was I supposed to bring flowers? I'm sorry, I didn't know-"

"It's all right, Chuck," Sarah said, cutting off his babble. Chuck felt relieved that she had done so, cursing his natural instinct to speak without thinking. He had been so thrown by the question that he hadn't remembered to stay reserved.

Sarah gave him a small smile, then turned to her friend. "Catherine, might I have a moment alone with Mr. Carmichael?"

Catherine nodded, her eyes fixed on Chuck. "Of course." She paused, then stepped towards him and poked him in the chest. "You know how lucky you are, that Sarah forgave you?"

Something about her narrowed eyes and fierce voice made Chuck feel very nervous. He nodded quickly. "Yes, yes I do know. I'm very, very lucky."

"Don't forget that," Catherine warned, before she turned and strutted away.

He swallowed and looked at Sarah, who had an amused expression on her face. "I think we've convinced Catherine," she said, her voice low. She took his arm, resting her hand on his forearm lightly.

"And I'm going to make certain I don't ever give the appearance of hurting you. I shudder at what Catherine might do to me," he said, equally quiet as he began walking with her around the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her duck her head, which only partially concealed her smile. Something about her shyness made him think that her smile was because of him. That made all those feelings bubble up inside him, but he ruthlessly shoved them down as best he could.

She halted a passing servant and took a glass of wine from his tray, holding it out to Chuck. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Carmichael," she said, a trifle loudly.

Taking the glass from her, he raised his own voice in order to sell their performance. "I match your pleasure with my own, Lady Sarah."

A quiet titter behind him made him glance over his shoulder, spying Lady Mary and two other maids-of-honour, all three girls looking about the same age. He flushed a little at their laughter, then looked back at Sarah.

While she sipped her wine, Chuck could see her calculating how to respond. Then a devilish look appeared on her face as she composed her reply. "Indeed, Mr. Carmichael? It's not often a gentleman cares if his pleasure is matched by his partner's." Sarah smiled up at him sweetly, her eyes dancing with mischief.

He could feel his ears go bright red as the titters behind him broke into full laughter. The last thing he had expected was Sarah teasing him like this and it knocked him off-balance. At the same time, he wondered how it was possible for Sarah to be even more attractive to him.

Sarah rose up a little, peering over his shoulder, then sank back down. "They're gone now." She gave him a small smile. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help myself."

Chuck never claimed to understand women. A lifetime of seeing Eleanor's strange reactions and decisions, ones that made no sense to him but always worked out for her, made him realize long ago that women were very different from men. Even with that knowledge, though, he had no idea why Sarah was acting so . . . friendly. Almost like she was flirting with him.

No, that couldn't be it. He must be imagining this. She was certainly acting this way because of the crowd rapidly filling the room.

Still, it was nice. To feel so warmly regarded. He took a sip of his wine and looked at her. "Any news from our friend?" he asked quietly.

By friend, Sarah knew that he was referring to Sir Francis. She nodded and leaned in towards him slightly. "Yes, and I have something to share with you." Sarah glanced around, then pulled him towards a set of windows with a small, narrow ledge that jutted out, forming a small balcony large enough for two people.

Once they were outside, Chuck took a deep breath. It felt good to leave the stuffy room behind and inhale the fresh air. He noticed that Sarah did the same, her silvery-blue dress shimmering in the light from the just-rising moon.

They were alone on the small balcony, so Chuck took a small step away from her, giving her some extra room. "What is it?" he asked cautiously.

"I haven't read the letter yet," Sarah said, sliding it out of the sleeve of her dress. "It arrived just before I came down. Here," she said, holding it out to him.

He opened the letter and scanned the contents, translating the coded message as quickly as possible. "We should be extra careful, he says," Chuck summarized as he read. "The plot is advancing, moving closer to conclusion. He says that if I can't find some excuse to send Morgan out of London, I should hire someone to keep track of his movements and watch him." He couldn't help frowning at that suggestion.

"Sending him away would be the safest plan, but having him watched isn't a bad idea, either," Sarah said quietly.

"I can't send him away," Chuck said. "And I don't have the money to pay for a guard."

"Have you seen anything suspicious? Has Morgan?"

He shook his head. "No, on both counts. I've done what I could to keep a low profile since I got the threat against Morgan."

"Perhaps it was simply a feint," Sarah said. "An attempt to scare you off the mission."

"It nearly worked," Chuck admitted, looking at Sarah. "But if these traitors are willing to harm an innocent man, I couldn't imagine what they might do to the Queen. And when I realized that, I knew I had to see this through."

Apparently, his imagination was working very hard tonight, because although Sarah's expression was indescribable, it filled him with warmth. Her eyes were locked on his, her hands were on his arms, and she seemed to moving closer to him, rising up on her toes . . .

And as suddenly as it started, she had moved back. Chuck looked around wildly and noticed Lady Mary and her friends, hurrying away from the window and giggling loudly.

Of course. She was just preserving appearances. He felt crushed. After everything he told himself, after all his work to move past how he felt for Sarah, she was still everything he wanted. A smile from her could make his heart fly up into the clouds, could make him feel like the man he was supposed to be. As much as he had worked to suborn his feelings and remember that they were only pretending, he couldn't cut off his emotions and he couldn't pretend.

And due to the part they had to play, she had to act like she wanted him as well. But he knew that it was all false. She didn't truly want him; all she wanted was to finish this assignment and find a way to be a spy. If she was anyone else, her ambition and her abilities would impress him. And they still did. But he couldn't help wishing that maybe, just maybe, she'd want something safer. Something simpler. Something like him.

Now that they were truly alone, Sarah was all business. "We don't have much time before the concert begins. You need to know about a conversation I had with Count Mendoza."

"Just-just give me a moment," he muttered, turning away from her. Crumpling up the letter from Sir Francis, he stuffed it into his doublet and closed his eyes. He knew he shouldn't be revealing himself like this to her, but he had to have a moment to collect himself. To remind himself that they were no different than two actors in the queen's theatrical troupe.

To Sarah's credit, she waited patiently, saying nothing. Chuck took a few deep breaths, doing his best to push away his emotions, then turned back to Sarah. He managed a small smile before he straightened his shoulders. "You said you had a conversation with Count Mendoza?"

Sarah opened her mouth, then closed it and nodded. "Yes," she said quietly. "It was very odd."

"Odd how?" Chuck asked. Even though the last thing he wanted to do was touch her, he made himself reach out and take her hand, holding it in both of his.

"He accused you of being a traitor," Sarah said softly. "Which is nonsense, of course, but also very interesting."

He frowned. "Why would he accuse me of being capable of such a crime? What exactly did he say?"

"Count Mendoza said I should be careful of you, that I didn't know who you really were," Sarah explained. "Then he said that the Countess of Lincoln is actually a Catholic, and implied you have something to do with her plot since you work for the Earl."

"I have seen signs that the Countess is involved in something suspicious," Chuck said in a low voice. "It's not the kind of evidence you could present at trial, but between being visited by Count Mendoza and speaking Spanish with him-"

"What?" Sarah asked, sounding shocked. "The Countess has received the Spanish Ambassador in her home and has spoken to him in Spanish?"

"I've seen him there twice, and once I overheard them speaking in a language I didn't know," Chuck said. "I assumed it was Spanish."

Sarah looked up at him. He could see her mind working away, trying to fit all the pieces together. Before she could say anything, however, a loud thud was heard. Glancing into the room, Chuck saw that the audience was mostly seated at this point, and the Master of the Revels was announcing the start of the concert.

"We need to take our seats," Sarah said, leading him back into the room. "Don't leave after the concert-there's still much to discuss."

"All right," he said, escorting her towards her seat towards the front of the room. He bowed and then stepped back carefully, walking towards the back of the room and finding a seat on one of the benches.

XXX

For the next hour, Sarah mimed paying close attention to the concert. She clapped when the rest of the audience clapped, joined in when the performers asked the crowd to sing along, and acted as if she was enjoying herself tremendously.

It was all a lie, though.

Actually, her mind was busy contemplating how they could proceed with their mission. She wished she had held on to the letter from Sir Francis, so she could read his actual message. It wasn't that she didn't trust Chuck; it was more that she knew he was . . .

Sarah felt her teeth nibble at her lower lip before she forced herself to smile softly as she listened to the musicians. Chuck's attempt to keep their interaction without emotion seemed to be failing tonight. When he had turned his back on her, Sarah had felt a stab of guilt. She didn't like seeing him suffer, seeing him feel hurt. But as she was the apparent cause of his pain, she didn't know how to fix it.

It was a shame that they had to meet like this. That they had to appear as a couple when they really weren't. Not just because Chuck had fallen harder than she had, but because it meant they couldn't be friends. And Sarah suspected that Chuck would be a wonderful friend. To have him listen when she talked, offering his little jokes and unusual rays of insight . . . it would be nice.

But they couldn't be friends and they definitely weren't lovers, in spite of what Chuck wanted. Even though Sarah wished it could be easier on him, she knew a non-emotional relationship was better for them both. She doubted she would be a good partner and companion. It wasn't just her desire to become an intelligencer that argued against the bonds of holy matrimony. It was her own sober reflections that said she would not be a good wife or mother. She wasn't willing to trade her mind and body and soul for a little earthly security. Not when she could achieve that on her own, even if such an action would shock society and make her lose her social standing. She was willing to take that risk, however, because she would rather be unhappy by her own decisions than have unhappiness thrust upon her by some man who thought he knew best.

She shifted in her seat a little, feeling somewhat annoyed at the direction of her thoughts. At this very moment, the plotters could be setting their trap for the Queen, readying to spring it and close their jaws around the monarch. Sarah rested her hand over her opposite forearm, feeling naked without the stiletto. Her small dagger was strapped to her ankle, but the bare sleeves of this dress did not allow the concealment of any weapons.

As soon as the concert was over, she could finish her conversation with Chuck and make plans for how they would carry out Sir Francis's instructions. There was also the situation with Morgan to be addressed. Sarah suspected that Chuck would have difficulty focusing on anything until his friend's safety was guaranteed. So she spent the rest of the concert making plans.

When the last notes sounded and the audience applauded, Sarah rose to her feet and looked around the room for Chuck. She knew he had taken a seat towards the back, but she could see no sign of him. Craning her neck, she finally spotted him in the far corner of the room.

It took her a few minutes to reach him, having to make small talk with a few ladies and paying a compliment to the Master of the Revels for an excellent concert. But finally, she reached Chuck's side.

"Come with me, Chuck," she said softly, taking his arm and pulling gently on it. But he didn't move, not at all. He was frozen in place, looking down at a grubby bit of paper in his hand that Sarah had just noticed. She had assumed it was Sir Francis's letter, but what would make him stare down at it in such a dazed manner?

"Chuck?" she asked, trying to break him out of his spell. "What is this?" She gestured towards the paper, trying to see for herself what it said.

Her voice must have finally reached him, because he turned to look at her. Sarah nearly took a step back, shocked at the expression on his face. He wore a look of utter heartbreak and fear and worry. It was like seeing someone whose world had just ended, someone who didn't know how to pick up the pieces.

Without conscious thought, Sarah reached up and touched his cheek, feeling the prickle of his beard and the softness of his skin. "What is it?"

He swallowed. "It-" His voice sounded bleak and it broke on the word. He cleared his throat and tried again. "It's Morgan. They-they took him."

"What?" Sarah said with a gasp. Without waiting for his answer, she snatched the paper out of his hand and ran her eyes quickly over the letter.

_You __did __not __heed __our __warnings__. __Now __your __little __bearded __servant __must __pay __the __price__. __We __have __him __and __he __will __not __withstand __torture __very __well__, __I __think__. _

_We __know __you __send __messages __about __the __goings__-__on __at __the __Earl __of __Lincoln__'__s __home __to __Sir __Francis __Walsingham__. __Send __him __the __enclosed __message __and __when __you __receive __his __reply__, __leave __the __message __under __the __loose __brick __at __the __Sign __of __the __Boar __in __Pudding __Lane__. __Fail __to __do __this __by __midnight __on __Wednesday __and __your __friend __will __suffer __greatly__. __Comply __with __our __orders __and __he __will __be __returned __to __you__._

Sarah quickly looked at the additional message, one that spoke about the purchase of boats and moving them to Dover, before she looked up at Chuck. He was running his hands through his hair, looking distraught and emotional, and she knew he had to calm down so they could figure out a plan.

"Who gave you this?" she asked, taking his hand.

"A messenger . . . near the end of the concert." Chuck's voice was low and dull.

"Did you recognize him? Did he wear livery or a coat of arms?" she asked, trying to get to the bottom of this.

Chuck only shook his head. He seemed to be slipping into some kind of silent state, unable to process what was going on. Sarah squeezed his hand hard.

"Chuck-Chuck," she said, moving close to him as she shielded him from view with her body as much as she could. "Chuck, you need to listen to me. You have to put aside your emotions and focus."

Blearily, he looked at her. She wasn't sure if her words were penetrating his mind. So she jammed the heel of her shoe hard into his foot.

"Ouch!" he said loudly, jumping a little. To her relief, she saw the haze lifting from his eyes.

"Sorry, Chuck," she said, knowing she didn't sound that apologetic. "But I had to make sure you were listening to me."

"Listen to what?" he asked.

"To my plan," Sarah said, her words coming quickly. "If the plotters have taken Morgan, clearly we've gotten close to them. We can use this to our advantage, find a way to feed them false information, something."

He blinked at her. "What?"

"Chuck, this is a chance to destroy the plot from the inside out," she said, stepping closer to him. She felt a rush of energy as she mentally organized her ideas. "We'll tell Sir Francis what happened. This message is clearly a bluff, to misdirect Sir Francis into stationing watchers at Dover when there's nothing to be seen there. If we can return the bluff somehow, we'll make them relax their guard. And then we can save the Queen and the country."

As she spoke, she noticed that he had started to shake his head. "No, no. We can't do that."

"What do you mean, we can't?" she asked, her hands resting on her hips.

"Because my best friend's life is at stake!" Chuck said. "And I won't risk him for this plan. For any plan."

"Chuck, they would have no way of knowing that we would be performing a double-cross on them," Sarah insisted.

"Are you sure about that? Are you willing to wager Morgan's life on that?" Chuck stepped closer to her, for the first time using his height against her.

Sarah glared up at him. "Yes, I'm sure. I've trusted Sir Francis since I was seven years old and I trust that he can find a way to bring these traitors out of their dark holes and into the light of justice."

"Without Morgan being hurt or killed?"

It was all she could do not to stomp her foot. Why was Chuck being so stubborn, so timid? He had to realize that Sir Francis had years of experience in these matters. The last thing he would want was Chuck's friend to suffer. Yet there was also the issue of what really mattered right now: taking advantage of this opportunity to identify these plotters, to stop their plot and to save the Queen.

She knew he wasn't a trained intelligencer, that he had fallen into this assignment. She had to persuade him to see her point of view. Taking a deep breath, she sought to sound calm when she spoke.

"Chuck, I know you're worried about Morgan. This situation may seem very dangerous and I know you might not feel like you know Sir Francis enough to trust him. I give you my word, though-Sir Francis will do everything possible to save Morgan while undermining this plot. But you have to realize what is the higher priority right now." She paused and licked her lips. "The safety of the Queen and of England has to come first. It might not seem fair, but-"

"Fair?" he asked, his voice cutting. "No. It's not fair. It's not right. And it's not what is going to happen." He stepped back from her. "You and Sir Francis, you can do what you do best: lie and pretend and exist on logic only. But I'm not like you and I can't have my best friend die because of me."

Was it possible for someone to feel their cheeks aflame even as a chill went over them? Because that was how Sarah felt as Chuck gave her his opinion of her.

"Chuck, I'm sorry, but-"

"I'm not listening any more," he said, his voice shaking. "You deal with your grand plot. I'm going to focus on the little things that you don't care about, the ordinary people caught up in this. Because Morgan is my best friend. I've known him since we were five years old and I want him to be around for many more years." He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes full of fear and a harsh determination. Then, without another word, he turned away from her and walked out of the room.

Sarah swept her eyes around the room, idly noticing that it had emptied since the concert had ended. That was a good thing; there weren't many people to see another fight between Chuck and herself.

Taking a deep breath, she smoothed out her skirts and walked towards one of the doors, trying to act unruffled. Trying to act completely unaffected by the words Chuck had said to her, the words that illustrated just what he thought of her.

And it was a portrait that was completely unflattering. One that painted her in such a negative light that she couldn't help but examine herself. She searched her soul, wondering if she was as Chuck saw her: emotionless, cold and friendless. A woman who didn't understand friendship or joy or love.

Was that really who she was?

End, Chapter 5


	7. Chapter 6

**Ready ****at ****Your ****Hand****, ****Chapter**** 6 (7/10)**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: In the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, a Catholic plot against the queen comes to the attention of spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham. To protect Elizabeth, he develops an unusual plan: hide the passing of intelligence between two agents by a false romance. When Lady Sarah Walker and Chuck Carmichael meet, though, their pretend flirtation becomes much more.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author****'****s ****Note**: In case you missed it, I have a new story that is being posted on Thursdays. If you missed it, take a look at The Fairy Tale of Sarah Walker.

XXX

"Though the sex to which I belong is considered weak you will nevertheless find me a rock that bends to no wind."

Queen Elizabeth I

XXX

For the rest of his life, Chuck would never know how he transported himself from the palace at Greenwich to his lodgings in Cheapside that night. Somehow, in the midst of his distraction, he made it home safely, and once inside the room that he shared with Morgan, he could think.

His heart was surely broken in two by Sarah's actions. He thought she had understood what Morgan meant to him, thought she was willing to help protect his best friend. But she was not. Her true colors had been revealed, ones that made her outer beauty and inner goodness seem tarnished and false. When presented with an opportunity to help an innocent victim of this plot, she was more focused on the plot, on establishing herself as worthy of Sir Francis's attention.

Chuck slumped down in his chair in front of his desk and ran his hands through his hair. He was probably being unfair to Sarah. She had never even met Morgan, after all. And she didn't know just how deep Chuck's friendship with Morgan was.

Logically, he knew that Sarah's focus was on saving the Queen, and of course Chuck wanted the monarch to be saved. Chuck could see how Sarah could feel that Morgan was less important than the Queen. But that wasn't how he felt. And he couldn't help being disappointed that Sarah didn't see his perspective and wasn't willing to help him rescue Morgan.

Taking a deep breath, Chuck made himself shove his hurt and sadness and fear into the back of his mind. He needed to come up with a plan, one that would save Morgan. To do that, he would need to keep all his wits about him and not let his emotions get carried away. Instead of letting his feelings be a wildfire, they could be banked embers, warm and constant inside him. His memories of friendship and happiness would give him the determination to see this through.

He pulled out the letter from Sir Francis, the one he had stuffed in his pocket, and smoothed it out. The message about Morgan had been left behind with Sarah, but the words were burned into his brain. And in the confusion, he had kept the message that the plotters wanted sent to Sir Francis, the one that was full of false intelligence. That meant that if Sir Francis wanted to implement Sarah's idea, they would be acting blind, unaware of what kind of message to send. Chuck felt a stab of hope and grim satisfaction; it gave Chuck an advantage and he had precious few of those.

First, he read over Sir Francis's letter carefully, noting the information that the spymaster was providing in response to Chuck's reports about Count Mendoza's visits to the Countess of Lincoln. The revelation that Count Mendoza was involved in the plot was not surprising to Sir Francis; he wrote that he had long suspected the Spanish ambassador as one of the leaders of the plot. Chuck's details gave them avenues to explore, and they would soon begin isolating the count and restricting his access.

It was a good strategy, but it wouldn't help Chuck save Morgan. And he couldn't help feeling that Count Mendoza was the one who had captured Morgan. What better way of interfering with the attempts to uncover the plot by Sir Francis and his associates than to attack a friend of one of those associates? The accusations that Mendoza had made against Chuck, the way Chuck had witnessed the ambassador attempt to corner Sarah, not to mention the overall sense of distrust and suspicion that Chuck felt about the Spaniard . . . it all made him think that Morgan was being held by Mendoza.

Without confirmation, though, it was only a guess. And Chuck couldn't save Morgan if he didn't have solid information. But time was rapidly slipping away; he had less than two days before they were expecting Sir Francis's response to the plotter's message.

He looked at the second message the plotters had sent, reading over the short note. It was from Count Mendoza to the Countess, informing her that ships would set sail from France in a fortnight, to land at various harbors in Kent and Cornwall. There was also a request that she prepare to act as she had against Frobisher.

What did that mean? Chuck frowned and snatched a scrap of paper and jotted down "Countess-Frobisher" as a reminder to himself. It could be nothing, but he would talk to the newsagent down the street. The man had lived in London his whole life and was full of local gossip.

Sitting back in his chair, Chuck rubbed his hand over his beard, a habit he had fallen into at school when lost in thought. An idea was tickling at the fringes of his mind, one that was rather daring and dangerous. It was also rather complex-maybe too complex for one man to accomplish.

But it would mean Morgan would be safe from harm. And Chuck would be out of the spy life, because he would offer himself to Count Mendoza and the other plotters in exchange for Morgan.

As the hours slipped by, the sky growing progressively lighter as dawn approached, Chuck crouched over his desk and made lists and notes. By the time the sun began to rise, he had covered the wall by his desk with the steps of his plan. And at seven in the morning, as the cocks began crowing and Mrs. Beckman rang the gong for breakfast, Chuck had finished examining every step, looking for weaknesses and flaws.

It was a good plan, he thought. Complex, yes, but not overly so. It was something he could achieve in the thirty-six hours he had until he had to deliver the message to the public house in Pudding Lane. And it gave him chances to adjust based on the information he received to the questions he had.

Chuck stood up, his joints creaking slightly at being forced into new positions after hours of sitting. He took a few steps back, looking at all the elements one more time. For a moment, he let himself think about the impact his strategy would have on himself, let himself worry about what might become of him. But at the end of the moment, he nodded.

This would work. He would make sure of it. To save Morgan, it would be worth any cost to Chuck.

XXX

The next day and a half passed in a blur. Chuck barely slept and ate only enough to keep his hunger at bay. Otherwise, he was focused on the tasks that made up his course of action. It wasn't that different from how he had worked as he finished the work for his degree. His ability to focus and work without pause had drawn some mocking from his schoolmates, since most of them didn't care if they achieved a degree or not. But Chuck had cared and by working harder than he had ever done before, he had graduated with high honors.

But his work on his degree was eclipsed exponentially by how hard he worked now.

There had been conversations with newsagents and pamphlet sellers and publicans. He had spent most of his coins to prepare for Morgan's journey out of London and to their village, where he could stay with Eleanor and Devon. What was left had been paid out to the people who had charged for the information he had sought.

Now, with only a few hours left until he would go to Pudding Lane, came the hardest part. Entering his room, Chuck sat down at his desk and lit the candle. In the thin light, he pulled out a pen and some paper. He had letters to write, ones that would serve as his goodbyes.

The easiest one to write was to Sir Francis. Although he didn't feel like he had offered much to the spymaster, Chuck wanted to thank Sir Francis for the opportunity to do his part to protect the Queen and the country. Chuck explained what his plan was and assured Sir Francis that he had nothing to fear about secrets being revealed, because Chuck would carry what he knew to the grave. He concluded the letter with a humble request that if Sir Francis could find it in him to send ten pounds to his sister, Chuck would greatly appreciate it.

Once he set aside that letter, Chuck took a deep breath. Now it was time for the letters to the people he cared about. It was hard to put into words everything he felt, to say in a letter all the things he wanted those people to know. But he didn't want to leave any of them without saying goodbye.

He wrote a funny letter to Morgan, talking about all the good times they had shared over the years and about how much Morgan had meant to him. He also told Morgan he was leaving his father's sword to his friend and hoped he would sell it in order to have the money to apprentice to a baker. "I know you have a great future ahead of you, Morgan," Chuck had written, meaning it with all his heart.

The letter to Eleanor was more difficult to write; she was bound to have questions about what had happened to him, but he couldn't give her answers. But at least he could tell her how much he loved her and how he had such high hopes for her future with Devon. As he wrote, Chuck felt his repressed emotions stirring and reawakening. He didn't want to leave his sister behind. For years, they had been each other's only family, supporting each other and looking out for one another. Chuck knew that Eleanor would feel his loss deeply, but he took some small comfort in the knowledge that she would have Devon to help her through this loss.

Thinking about his sister's relationship made him consider his own, or what was the closest he had ever come to a love affair. He spent several minutes staring at a blank sheet of paper, wondering if he should even write a letter to Sarah. What could he say to her, considering how all his hopes had faded into ashes? Even the dream he had settled for, that they might be friends, was out of reach now. Because he doubted she would be able to forgive him for what he had said to her after the concert, not to mention what he was going to do tonight.

But then, these letters weren't for him. Yes, he was saying goodbye, but he was also giving those people a chance to know how important they were to him. It was his last chance to tell them how he felt and make sure there was nothing left unsaid. And that made him find the words, halting and imprecise as they were, to tell Sarah farewell.

By the time he finished, he could hear the clocks striking a quarter past eleven. It was time for him to go.

Chuck sealed the letters, leaving them on his desk. He had left instructions with Mrs. Beckman to send the letters for him in tomorrow's afternoon post, with the exception of the letter for Morgan. Standing up, Chuck looked around the small room where he had lived, where he once thought he was starting the rest of his life. Then he pulled on his shabby cloak and left the room, leaving the door unlocked.

At this hour, the streets were not fully deserted. There were people shambling home from the pubs as well as those who worked through the night, like bakers. As he walked towards Thames Street, he saw more sailors spending their wages on drink, more doxies and pickpockets, and Chuck was grateful that he had nothing to steal. He stepped past anyone who tried to stop him.

When he turned onto Pudding Lane, he spotted the Sign of the Boar easily. It was a seedy-looking place that appeared to be falling apart around its customers. As he approached the front door, Chuck thought that finding the loose brick seemed like a tricky-

He tripped, nearly falling on his face. Getting his feet under him, Chuck looked around and noticed a paving stone, one that was raised above the surrounding ones, was responsible for his stumble. It was odd for a stone to be so out of place, which made Chuck realize that this must be what he was looking for.

Crouching down, Chuck pulled up the stone, revealing a small cubby that was lined with a scrap of leather. Clearly, he wasn't the first person to be directed to leave something here.

With a quick glance around him, he withdrew the message he had written, in his best version of Sir Francis's hand, and placed it in the niche. He replaced the brick, then straightened up. A small alley ran along one side of the building, dark and narrow, and that was where Chuck went. He stepped back into the shadows, pressing his back against the side of the pub and trying to breath slowly and keep his heart calm.

A few long minutes passed without anyone approaching the pub, let alone the loose brick. When a nearby church began striking the hour, he jumped at the first loud peal of the bell and scolded himself. When he looked back over, he saw two large, burly men standing in front of the pub, while a third man was lifting up the loose paving brick.

This was it. Chuck watched the men closely, waiting for the moment he should reveal himself. Once the man had removed his message and opened it, Chuck gave him enough time to read the short note, then he stepped out of the alley.

As he approached the men, he heard them speaking in accented English. "What does this mean?" the man holding the message asked rhetorically as Chuck drew near.

"It means I have a bargain for your master," Chuck said, interrupting their conversation. He hoped his voice was stronger and more confident than it sounded in his own ears.

The speaker, a small, dark man, looked at Chuck curiously. "Mr. Carmichael, I assume. What sort of bargain?"

"A trade," Chuck said. His hands were sweating, so he pressed them against his hose. "If your master will release my friend, he can have me."

The man exchanged glances with his companions. "And why should we want such a trade?"

"Because my friend's life is more important than mine," Chuck said, looking at him with a level gaze. "And because I can offer your master something much better."

He returned Chuck's gaze, an expression of satisfaction appearing on his face. "Very well. It's your funeral." The man spoke to other two men in what Chuck guessed was Spanish. A blindfold was produced and wrapped around Chuck's eyes. Then his elbows were taken in a crushing grip and he was led away.

Chuck focused on walking, not wanting to lose his footing. He took deep breaths, in and out. And he tried not to let his great, overwhelming fear swamp him.

Contrary to what he had said, Chuck had no intention of double-crossing Sir Francis. He knew that he couldn't betray the Queen like that. Hopefully, Chuck had done enough so far to help Sir Francis undermine Count Mendoza, the Countess of Lincoln and this plot. So there wouldn't be much of a loss from Chuck doing this.

From the sounds and smells, they were at the Thames. They must be taking him by boat somewhere, Chuck thought. He was roughly shoved into a seated position and his hands were tied behind his back. There was truly no possibility of escape now.

But he had known that as soon as he had revealed himself to the men. He would be taken to their master, who was probably Count Mendoza. And there would be torture. He knew it would hurt. It would hurt a lot, he thought. But he would not talk. He knew so little to begin with; the only people he could betray were Sir Francis and Sarah.

Licking his lips, Chuck let himself think of Sarah. In his mind's eye, he pictured her face: her pale, smooth skin; the sunshine brightness of her hair; the soft pink of her lips; her fine features. Last, he thought of her eyes, those orbs that were the color of the sky and twice as changeable, those eyes that not even Sarah could control. Because he could always tell what she was feeling by looking into her eyes.

Because he was a fool and facing near-certain death, he imagined that her eyes were full of love for him. That she truly did care about him and that if circumstances had been different, she would have let herself love him. That they could have found a way for both of them to be happy, together even when he was in England and she was off protecting their country.

His actions would save Morgan. They would give Sir Francis extra time to determine how to uncover the plot. The Queen would be protected and England would be saved from turmoil and bloodshed. His future nephews and nieces could grow up safe and secure with two parents that loved them. And Sarah would be positioned to begin the next chapter in her life, ready to be the spy she wanted to become without any unnecessary emotional entanglements.

And he would die thinking of her.

XXX

When Chuck left her that evening, Sarah's thoughts were in a complete jumble. All she wanted was to go to bed and find some way to cope with how Chuck saw her, but that wasn't possible. Although the hour was late, she had to see Sir Francis.

With help from John Casey, within an hour she was at Sir Francis's modest townhouse, informing him of these latest developments. To her surprise, the spymaster hadn't agreed with Sarah's idea to double-cross the plotters and their false information.

"Even if we had the enclosed message, following the directions would be a foolhardy idea," Sir Francis said after reading the crumpled letter about Chuck's friend. "This is the chance to cut off the head of the monster. The time for caution is past. These foul traitors have too much knowledge of our actions. We will watch this Sign of the Boar leading up to the appointed time, as clearly it's a meeting point. Within a few days, we will have identified the links between these plotters."

Sarah had nodded slowly. "And what about Morgan? Chuck's friend?"

"I will send men out to watch Count Mendoza's residence and question people in Cheapside," Sir Francis said. "We will do what we can for this young man and to assist Mr. Carmichael. But our first goal is to reveal the plot and destroy these traitors."

Why did hearing Sir Francis say the same thing that she had said to Chuck send a cold shiver down her spine? He didn't know Chuck like she did; it was understandable that he couldn't grasp how serious this was for Chuck. But she did know. And she had said the same thing.

Sir Francis was still speaking, but Sarah barely paid attention. She looked at her hands in her lap and marveled at the amount of shame she felt.

"Lady Sarah?"

She started slightly, then looked at Sir Francis. "Yes?"

"You should return to the palace. I will contact you by tomorrow evening with more information."

"Oh, yes," she said, standing up quickly. "Thank you, Sir Francis."

"You have done well, Sarah," he said, looking up at her with an expression that might be pride.

Once upon a time, such a statement would have sent her heart flying into the clouds. It would have made her build a castle in the air, imagining herself as a spy in foreign lands, living a life of adventure and excitement and purpose.

But now, she felt nothing. She was numb.

That future that she had always dreamed of now seemed unrealistic, undesirable. And she didn't understand why. Actually, she did understand-she just didn't want to admit the reason to herself.

As she rode back to the palace in the carriage, Sarah felt a curious sense of detachment. She watched the scenery of the darkened city, thinking about everything and anything but this whole complicated situation. She wouldn't let herself think about Chuck. She couldn't.

She moved through the halls of the palace quietly, feeling limp. This day had gone so differently than she thought it would. When she woke up so many hours ago, she had been thinking about the concert, trying to create contingencies for anything that might happen and wondering what to expect with Chuck.

With all her planning, she hadn't thought it would all go so wrong.

Catherine was asleep when Sarah entered their room. She thought about changing into her nightdress, but it all seemed like too much effort. So she loosened her laces and kicked off her shoes before laying on her back on the bed.

Everything seemed so . . . so wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen. She shouldn't feel like this. Like her whole world was collapsing around her.

At this very moment, Chuck was doing who-knows-what in order to save his friend. It was admirable, noble, praiseworthy. And also incredibly, terribly foolish. He barely knew anything about being an intelligencer. He didn't have her training, his instincts were only a quarter-developed, and so far he had succeeded through luck and nothing more. How could he think he could save Morgan from anyone?

And she had let him go on his own to do all this. When she could have helped him.

Sarah swallowed. She couldn't have gone with Chuck. If she had offered to help Chuck, she would have been acting contrary to what a spy would do. The proper thing to do was to alert Sir Francis about what had happened at the concert and then assist him as needed. She had focused on keeping the Queen safe and eliminating the plotters.

Ever since she had learned what Sir Francis actually did for the Queen, she had spent the last six years working to become an intelligencer. That was what she wanted. That was all she wanted. She didn't want anything else.

Yes, admittedly she felt something when she was close to Chuck. But it was only a physical reaction. After watching Catherine for the last four years, she knew that kisses were fleeting and passion was dangerous. It made the smartest people act like fools. And Sarah Walker was no fool.

Her parents had loved each other and it had gotten them a few years of happiness and a child they had left behind. She wouldn't be weak like that. Wouldn't trade today for tomorrow.

Suddenly she couldn't lie quietly in her bed. She got up and tightened her lacing. There had to be something she could do, some way to help Sir Francis and keep her mind off what Chuck might be doing now.

Lighting a candle at her dressing table, Sarah opened a drawer and pulled out some paper and a pen. She stared at the paper, trying to think of any facts or information that would help Sir Francis, something that hadn't been previously reported. But nothing came. Without any directions from the spymaster, she was left to wait. And she wasn't good at waiting.

With a sigh, she sat back on her stool, feeling frustrated. Looking for something to keep her mind occupied, she ran her eyes over her dressing table, then leaned forward. In a half-open drawer, she could just see a stack of letters. They were the letters she had received from Chuck.

For some reason, she glanced over her shoulder at Catherine. If she read over Chuck's letters, she might find some piece of information that might be useful. Something she hadn't noticed when she first read them.

Sarah reached into the drawer and pulled out the letters. She had kept them in the order she had received them, so the most recent letter was on the top. So she started at the bottom, with the dossier he had written for her.

Just the sight of his sprawling script made something tighten inside her. She gazed at the page for a long moment, not reading, just looking at his handwriting and remembering how she once thought it wasn't reflective of his personality. But now it seemed very Chuck to write so loosely, so freely.

Slowly, she read through his dossier. She had memorized all the facts when she had received it. Reading it again, though, was different. She could feel his emotions coming through even more this time. His love for his sister, his amused friendship with Morgan, his bittersweet memories of university-it made her understand Chuck more than she realized.

She lowered the paper, resting it in her lap. Why did she let her mind keep thinking about Chuck? Why could she not escape him? Why was she so confused when normally she was focused and logical?

There had to be some reason for her behavior. Something that made sense. Yet whenever she tried to think about it, tried to reason out her strange actions, her mind skittered away, refusing to confront herself. She ran her hands through her hair, giving up for now on her attempts to figure out this problem. It was so very late, and she should at least try to sleep. It was the smart thing to do.

Putting away the letters, Sarah rose and did her best to undress before blowing out the candle and sliding under the bedcovers. She curled into a ball, staring off into the darkness for a few minutes. Then with a sigh, she closed her eyes and breathed slowly. Sleep came slowly as her mind kept turning over her problems. And when she finally drifted off, her dreams were strange and unsettling.

Actually, the dreams weren't unsettling. She had dreamed of Chuck, dreamed of walking with him through the gardens and feeling quiet and content and peaceful. What was unsettling was wishing that it had been real.

XXX

It was rare that Lady Sarah Walker paced. But that was exactly what she was doing right now as she waited for Sir Francis. The past two days had seen her nerves become progressively less steady, until she was forced to find some way to release the tension inside her.

Her skirts swirled around her and she kicked them out of the way in frustration as she turned to make another lap of the small room that was Sir Francis's inner office. It was an hour past midnight, an hour past the time set in the letter Chuck had received during the concert two days ago. Sir Francis had sent some of his men to watch the Sign of the Boar and report back to him. And with each minute that passed, Sarah's fears grew.

There had been no news from Chuck, nothing to soothe her conscience or relieve her worries. Making the situation even worse, Sir Francis had been silent as well. Contrary to his word, he had not sent her a message yesterday. As the hour for the message exchange had approached, she had been unable to hide her strange behavior any longer and went to Sir Francis's office.

When she entered, Sir Francis's clerk informed her that the spymaster was expected shortly and she could wait in the inner office. That had been nearly two hours ago and she wasn't sure how much longer she could wait without losing her mind.

The sound of a door opening made her whirl around. "Sir Francis!" she said, stepping forward. "What word do you have?"

The spymaster looked exhausted. He spoke quietly to the clerk in the outer office, then stepped into the inner office and closed the door behind him. He sank down into a chair, rubbing his stomach. "A moment, Lady Sarah."

She bit her lip, then turned to pour some wine for Sir Francis. "My apologies, sir. Please, refresh yourself." She set the wine in front of him, and her guardian gave her a weak smile before lifting the goblet and sipping from it.

Taking a seat across from him, Sarah folded her hands in her lap, trying to appear calm in spite of how she truly felt. It was difficult to wait, but she knew that Sir Francis's health was stretched to the limit at the moment. While she was waiting, she had overheard the clerk in the outer office speaking with several men and receiving couriers; the spy network was at a state of high alert. That meant an even greater strain for a spymaster who was ill.

After a few sips of wine, Sir Francis was ready to speak. "Our watchers were stationed in the public house all evening. There were also men on the street. They saw three men, probably of Spanish extraction, arrive at midnight and retrieve a message, only to be met by Mr. Carmichael."

"Chuck was there?" Sarah asked, leaning forward.

He raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Yes. He spoke with the men, then they covered his eyes and led him away, to the river."

Sarah stared at Sir Francis, her whole body going cold. How could he be so calm when recounting such horrible news? Acting like this was just an unfortunate event like being caught in the rain or missing a meal?

Her anxiety increased, something she would have thought was impossible. It was all she could do not to wring her hands. "But . . . but why? Why would he go with them?"

"I suspect he has done something foolish. Perhaps he was attempting to learn more about the whereabouts of that friend of his. Unless we have been misled by him and he's truly an agent of Spain." Sir Francis's voice was even and precise.

"What? That's ridiculous," Sarah said, unable to sit any longer. She rose, smoothing out her skirts distractedly. "I'm sure you thoroughly evaluated Chuck-I mean, Mr. Carmichael-before you made him part of the network. And even if you hadn't, anyone could look at him and see that he has no love for Spain and hasn't had any real training as an intelligencer."

"Someone pretending to be a loyal neophyte would arouse less suspicion," Sir Francis countered. "Find a way to grow close to our operation and alert the traitors at every step of the way. It is something to consider, Lady Sarah."

She shook her head emphatically as she walked in front of Sir Francis. "No. No, he is not a Spanish agent. That's not possible. He must have gone with those men because he wanted to help Morgan." She paused as an idea occurred to her. Sarah could feel her face blanching.

"What is it, Lady Sarah?" Sir Francis asked.

"He made a trade," Sarah whispered. She turned to look at Sir Francis, feeling like her heart was in her throat. "He offered to trade himself for his friend."

"That thought had crossed my mind," he admitted slowly.

"We can't let him do that!" Sarah exclaimed. "They-Count Mendoza and the other plotters-they'll try to obtain information from him. They could find out everything!"

Sir Francis's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Carmichael has limited information to share with the plotters. When they realize that, they will have little use of him."

"Don't you see?" Sarah said, throwing her hands wide in frustration. "They'll torture him and when they realize he doesn't know anything, they'll kill him!"

As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized just what she was saying. She stepped back from Sir Francis, turning away from him as she coped with the sudden wave of emotion. At this very minute, Count Mendoza could be hurting Chuck. Using devices of torture, making his blood flow and breaking his bones and-

She sank down into her chair, her legs feeling too unsteady to support her. And when the Count realized that Chuck had no use to him, he would kill Chuck.

The spymaster was talking, trying to assure her that they knew where Chuck was, that they were watching the house where Count Mendoza had taken him, that no harm would come to Chuck, but she didn't believe him. She knew what Sir Francis's first priority was: saving the Queen. And that meant being able to capture all the traitors and reveal the plot was more important than anything-or anyone-else.

"Sir Francis," she interrupted.

"Yes?"

Sarah swallowed. "I ask your permission to withdraw. I . . . I want to come to terms with this information, unless you have some task for me to perform."

Part of her almost wished he would give her something to do. Something that would let her focus on anything other than this pit in the bottom of her stomach. But Sir Francis, after a long look at her, shook his head.

"No, Lady Sarah. It is late, and you appear tired. I will alert you when I know more, probably late tomorrow."

With a nod, Sarah stood up. "Good evening, then." She turned and walked out of the room, not at all surprised that she stood straight and walked steadily. Because now she knew her position.

At this moment, when Sir Francis was marshalling all available agents in his network, he was telling her to go to bed and stay out of his way. He would never see her as a spy, would never put his faith in her. Whether it was simply because she was a woman or due to some unexpressed doubts he had about her, it seemed clear now that this assignment was not the start of something more.

All her hopes and dreams were crumbling around her. There was no possibility that she could escape the role that she was born to fulfill. A woman, no matter her abilities or talents or desires, was to stay quiet and out of the way and let the men have lives of action and adventure. She was supposed to sit and wait in silence, hoping that cruel fate or evil men wouldn't take away the things that mattered to her.

But Lady Sarah Walker wasn't about to do what she was told. So as she hurried through the corridors of the palace, heading towards her room, she began planning what she would do next in order to save Chuck.

XXX

The room he was in was cold. It had been a warm July night, the city holding in the heat of its residents and animals, when he was brought into this unknown place. But as soon as he had crossed the threshold, he sensed cold stone and metal around him. When the blindfold was removed, Chuck found himself chained against a stone wall, trickles of water running down it and wetting his clothes.

His head ached and his last memory was climbing into the ferry. One of the men must have struck him and knocked him unconscious. As best he could with his hands chained on either side of him, Chuck touched his head, discovering a large lump and a quantity of tacky blood.

He gave himself a count of thirty to freak out. To let himself feel all the fear and worry and nervousness, to wonder what was going to happen to him. And at the end of his count, Chuck took a deep breath and tried to learn more about his situation.

There was some slack in the chains, enough to let him move away from the wall by two paces and raise or lower his hands slightly. The room had a moist, cold feel, making him think he was in some kind of underground chamber or cellar. There were no windows, but there was a candle set on a small ledge, giving off faint light that revealed a wooden door. The walls and floor and ceiling were stone, and he could hear nothing that could help him place where he was-not the sort of structure this room was part of, not his location within London. He might not even be within the city's walls any more, since he did not know how long he had been unconscious.

When he had been investigating Count Mendoza, he had discovered that the ambassador rented a small house in Southwark, a natural location if you wanted a secret residence in which to do dark and evil deeds. He suspected that he might be taken there, but at this point Chuck had no way of knowing. And it was all based on the supposition that it was Count Mendoza who had sent men to collect the message at the pub.

"So you don't know where you are, you only have the foggiest notion who might be holding you, and there's no one to help you," Chuck said quietly, summing up the situation. "Well done, Chuck."

Sighing, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. There wasn't enough slack in the chains to allow him to sit on the floor and it was important to conserve his strength. To be prepared for whatever might come.

Time passed. He didn't know if it was hours later, or only mere minutes, when the scraping of wood against stone pulled him from his thoughts.

Chuck took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height. He knew he wasn't an intimidating man, but he should at least face whoever was coming without hunching over.

"Ahhh, Mr. Carmichael," said a rich, Spanish-accented voice. The speaker was in shadow until with a strike of a match, a candle in the speaker's hand was lit. The light fell over the face of Count Mendoza and Chuck felt a small stab of satisfaction at guessing who was in charge. "How good of you to come."

What could someone say in such a situation? He wished he had a gift for banter, so he could sound like an actor in a play. Instead, he stayed silent.

"It appears that you have, what is it? 'Cat got your tongue'?" The count chuckled.

"Where is Morgan Grimes?" Chuck asked. "That's the deal: you get me in exchange for my friend."

"Ah, yes, but is it a deal when we already have you?" the other man asked, a note of amusement in his voice.

"Count Mendoza, I came with your men as a sign of good faith," Chuck said, stepping as close as he could to the ambassador. "Morgan knows nothing about this. He doesn't even know what I've done for Sir Francis."

"Yes, that has become clear to us, in-between all the crying," Count Mendoza said caustically. "Very well, I will release your friend."

There was no way of knowing if he could trust the count, Chuck knew. Morgan might already be dead. But what choice did Chuck have at this point? And there was nothing served by harming Morgan now that they had Chuck.

So Chuck nodded. "All right."

"Excellent," Mendoza said. He went over to the door and spoke to someone outside in a low voice. "That will allow us to have a little chat. Just you, me, and Ferdinand."

He really didn't like the sound of that. "Ferdinand?"

"That is right! You have just arrived, you have not met Ferdinand!" The count's voice was full of a dark glee. He raised his voice. "Come in, Ferdinand!"

At the count's invitation, a man stepped into the room. He had to bend down to enter through the doorway, and as he straightened up, Chuck saw that he was even taller than him. But where Chuck had a wiry frame, this man's body was thickset and muscular. Even his muscles had muscles, Chuck thought, feeling a shiver of fear run up his spine.

"Mr. Carmichael, I am pleased to introduce you to Ferdinand."

Chuck looked up at Ferdinand. Took in his massive physique, his bland expression. As Chuck watched, Ferdinand turned his head, cracking the bones in his neck in one loud, scary motion.

"I can't say it's a pleasure," Chuck found himself sputtering. The small amount of courage that had brought him here seemed to be rapidly draining away, like water down a drain.

"Everyone says that," Ferdinand said, in an incredibly deep voice.

The count had taken a seat on a small stool, looking amused. "Now, let us begin! I should warn you, Mr. Carmichael, if I don't like your answers, Ferdinand will express my displeasure upon you."

"Oh," Chuck said, his eyes darting from the count to Ferdinand to Ferdinand's fists.

"Yes!" The count smirked. "I'm sure we will have a fruitful conversation."

As Chuck pressed himself back against the stones slightly, hoping it wasn't noticeable, he wondered what the count's definition of a 'fruitful conversation' was. And he wondered if he would be able to answer any questions before he passed out from fear.

Truthfully, he doubted it.

XXX

By the time she reached her room, Sarah had mentally devised a neat, tidy list of tasks to perform. First, she would write a message to Sir Francis. She would have to rouse John Casey in the guardhouse and ask him to deliver it tonight, in spite of the late hour. It might be difficult to convince him to do so, but Sarah would refuse to accept any delay.

Next, she would visit Chuck's lodgings. He was emotional and sensitive, yes-but he also had a fine mind and a logical bent. He would want to create a strategy to rescue Morgan. There might be information there that could help her.

She could use all the information she could gather, because by tomorrow she would implement the last step: rescuing Chuck from Count Mendoza.

If Sir Francis wouldn't use her, she would find a use for herself. A use that would save the man she-

Sarah cut off that thought. She didn't know what she felt for Chuck, but she knew it wasn't right to leave him to suffer when he could be saved. And it appeared she was the only person who could do that.

It might be past two in the morning, but Sarah did not feel a shred of sleepiness. She entered her room and quickly lit the candle on her dressing table. Her paper and pen from the other night were still laying on the table's surface, so it was the work of a moment to scratch out her letter to Sir Francis. Once it was signed and sealed, Sarah rose and began struggling her way out of her dress.

Wearing full court regalia on a trip to Cheapside in the middle of the night would be utter foolishness. She knew that, but she wasn't sure which dress would attract the least attention during her late-night trip.

As she attempted to take her dress off, she jostled her dressing table, knocking it against the wall. Sarah made a grab for the candle and caught it before it tipped over. Through the noise, she heard Catherine's voice.

"Sarah? It's the middle of the night, what's-"

Catherine's keen eyes took in the scene before her. Sarah went back to undressing herself. "Go back to sleep, Catherine."

"What? No. Not until you explain what's going on," Catherine said, sitting up in bed and holding the covers against her chest. She rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Sometime after three," Sarah said, yanking at her dress. To her dismay, she heard the sound of ripping fabric and she groaned.

"Wait, wait," Catherine said, getting out of bed and moving behind her. Sarah rested her hands on her hips, tapping her fingers as she waited for Catherine's inspection.

"The seam split a little. It can be repaired easily," Catherine said. "Now tell me why you're still awake at this hour."

Sarah turned to face Catherine, feeling frustrated and nervous. Time was ticking away and she didn't want to delay-not when Chuck's life was hanging in the balance. But she didn't know if she could lie to Catherine and keep what was happening from her. Plus, how could she leave if Catherine put up a stand?

So she needed to find something to tell Catherine, something that wasn't the truth but was believable.

Hesitantly, she began speaking. "Chuck and I . . . we've been having problems-mostly because of me, but tonight, I realized that-that I-"

Catherine grinned. "You want to go see him?"

She nodded. "Yes. Now."

If possible, Catherine's grin got wider. "I can help you." She scampered over to her wardrobe and opened the door, pushing aside her frocks and pulling out a brown dress, made from a rough-looking material. "Here."

"What is this?" Sarah asked, taking the dress and holding it out in front of her.

"I borrowed it from a kitchen maid, so I could sneak out of the palace one time with Roger." Catherine grinned. "Then I forgot to give it back."

Somehow, Sarah doubted Catherine had truly forgotten. But it gave Sarah the perfect identity. She could wear this into the city and be no more noticed than any other servant. And with her dagger and stiletto, she would be well-protected. Sarah looked at Catherine and managed a smile. "Thank you."

"Let's get you into this. If it fit me, it should fit you," Catherine said with a smile. She stepped behind Sarah and finished unlacing her.

As Catherine helped her get dressed in the servant clothing, Sarah ran over her plan one more time, fixing all the details in her mind. If she could find John Casey quickly enough to deliver her message to Sir Francis, she could be at Chuck's lodgings within an hour and a half. When Catherine's back was turned, Sarah carefully wrapped her dagger around her ankle, then slid the stiletto up the sleeve of her dress. In the pocket of the rough apron that covered the dress, Sarah slid a few lockpicks.

To complete the outfit, Catherine handed Sarah a faded, close-fitting cloth cap. Sarah shoved her hair underneath it, surprised that all of her locks fit inside the cap but grateful for it. She turned to look at Catherine. "Well? Do I look like a servant?"

Catherine nodded. "You do. Now you just need to get out of the palace."

"After I deliver this to the guardhouse," Sarah said, plucking the letter off her dressing table.

"I could do that," Catherine offered.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "You could?" After all, Catherine would only perform a favor if she received something in return.

"You're in a hurry and I'm up now," Catherine said. At Sarah's look, she grinned. "And there's a new guard who's quite the looker."

"Of course," Sarah said dryly as she weighed her options. Catherine delivering the letter would be a huge help, but it was a risk. A risk she would take, Sarah decided quickly. She pressed the letter into Catherine's hand. "This needs to go to John Casey. Do you know him?"

"Oh, I know him," Catherine said with a small smirk.

Shaking her head, Sarah ignored Catherine's innuendo. "It's critical that he delivers this immediately. It's for Sir Francis."

Catherine looked at the letter curiously, then at Sarah. "Sarah, what's this about, really?"

There wasn't time to explain everything to Catherine. But looking at the woman who was the closest thing she had to a friend, Sarah realized that she wanted Catherine to know enough to understand her. And to see that Sarah valued her.

"I can't explain it all right now," Sarah said in a low voice. "But you have to convince Casey to take that letter to Sir Francis. The lives of two people depend on that letter getting delivered tonight. The Queen's . . . and Chuck's."

She held her breath, waiting for Catherine's reaction. Other than a widening of her green eyes, Catherine was silent for a long moment. Then she looked at Sarah and grinned. "Then it's good that I know some information about Mr. Casey that he wouldn't want to be widely known, isn't it?"

The soft snort of laughter that came out of Sarah surprised her, but it was just what she needed. She grinned back at Catherine. "I have to go."

"And so do I," Catherine said, pulling on a velvet robe over her nightdress. Her face grew serious. "Good luck, Sarah."

A lump formed in Sarah's throat, so she just nodded. Then, Sarah turned and hurried out of the room, soon breaking out into a run as she headed towards the ferry landing in the gardens.

XXX

She had never realized just how tightly she was laced in her court dresses until now, Sarah thought as she dashed through the streets of London. In loose-fitting servant's clothing, she could move so much faster-something that gave Sarah hope.

When she first set foot in Cheapside, she heard church bells chiming the hour of four in the morning. The streets were less empty than she expected; there were delivery boys scampering about and sleepy-eyed men walking into bake shops. There were even a few doxies still standing in doorways and alleys, but they were clustered in groups and chatting quietly, as people did at the end of a long day of work. In short, no one gave her a second glance as she walked towards Chuck's lodging house, located just off East Cheap.

Taking a deep breath, Sarah approached the tall, rundown building that was situated at the corner of two crossed streets. Ignoring the front door, Sarah walked to the side of the building, looking for the outdoor staircase that Chuck had once described to her. When she found it, she quickly climbed the stairs, willing to trade quiet for speed.

At the door to the room Chuck shared with Morgan, marked with a rough piece of paper bearing their names, Sarah hesitated for a moment. What if she didn't find anything? What if Chuck had left nothing that explained what he was planning to do? If that was the case, she would be left with nothing. She would be left to wait and wonder, her mind coming up with a dozen different horrifying scenarios every minute, unable to do anything to stop those scenarios from coming true.

Doing her best to push aside her emotions, Sarah crouched down and pulled out her lockpicks. To her surprise, the door was unlocked. Pushing aside the faint feeling of dread at the unlocked door, she quickly stepped inside, giving herself a moment for her eyes to adjust.

It wasn't a large room, furnished with a bed and a desk and a chest, but it did benefit from two small windows. With the half-full moon tonight, soon she could see enough to navigate towards the small desk in the corner. There was a candle stub on the top of the desk, which Sarah lighted without any delay. As the light grew strong and steady, she could see more. Like the papers pinned on the wall by the desk.

Sarah picked up the candle and leaned in, reading the notes carefully. Her heart leapt when she realized that it was Chuck's strategy for saving Morgan. As she poured over each scrap of paper, Sarah felt a growing admiration for his scheme. He had put the last two days to good use, discovering things that Sarah certainly didn't know. In fact, it was possible that Sir Francis didn't know some of these details.

There was an address posted on the wall, for a house in Southwark. Sarah pulled the piece of paper off the wall. Chuck had written underneath the address, "Mendoza-secret house-rented for last year."

The sight of that address and Chuck's notation made some internal alarm go off inside Sarah. Where else might Chuck be held than at this secret base? This was where she might find Chuck.

Tucking the page with the address into her apron's pocket, Sarah looked over the rest of Chuck's notes, not finding anything else she thought she needed. Setting the candle down on the desk, prepared to extinguish the flame and leave, Sarah paused when she spied a stack of letters sitting on the corner of the desk. Moving the candle, Sarah saw her own name on the topmost letter, written in Chuck's loose script.

Slowly, Sarah pulled out the chair tucked under the desk and sat down, staring at the letter. Chuck had written her a letter, but left it in his room? What did that mean? She shuffled through the letters, her fears rising when she saw the rest of the addressees. He had written to Sir Francis, Morgan, his sister, and herself.

She held her letter tightly as her suspicions ran wild. These letters seemed so clearly to be farewell messages, written because Chuck suspected he wouldn't survive. But Sarah couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't accept a world where Chuck wasn't alive.

Her breath caught as she realized that utter truth. She would save Chuck, or die trying.

To read this letter would be unnecessary, because she was going to find Chuck and he could say to her what he had written in this letter. It would almost be an invasion of his mind. But Sarah ignored all those noble intentions as she ripped open the letter. She had to know what this letter held.

It was only one page, with a few strikethroughs and ink blots. But as she read his words, Sarah felt a whirlwind of emotions.

_Dear __Sarah__:_

_This __wasn__'__t __the __way __I __wanted __to __share __my __feelings __with __you__. __I __wanted __to __do __this __in __person__, __so __I __could __see __your __face__, __even __as __I __stumbled __over __my __words __and __made __a __fool __of __myself__. __But __this __is __my __last __chance __to __tell __you__. _

_I __love __you__. _

_It __may __not __sound __possible__, __but __it__'__s __true__. __It__'__s __maybe __the __truest __thing __I__'__ve __ever __said__. __Because __I __do __love __you__, __with __all __my __heart __and __soul__. __I __might __not __know __much __about __you__, __about __your __past __and __your __favorite __food __and __what __you __want __other __than __to __be __a __spy__, __but __I __feel __like __those __details __don__'__t __matter__. __Not __as __much __as __what __I __do __know __about __you__. _

_Your __courage__, __your __intelligence__, __the __glimpses __I__'__ve __seen __of __your __sense __of __humor__-__all __that __and __more __make __me __feel __like __you __are __the __only __woman __for __me__. __I __know __you__'__ve __denied __having __feelings __for __me__, __and __I __know __my __refusal __to __believe __you __might __appear __to __be __disrespectful __or __belittling__. __I __don__'__t __feel __like __you __don__'__t __know __your __own __mind__, __but __I __also __didn__'__t __want __you __to __turn __your __back __on __even __attempting __to __see __if __we __might __be __more __than __we __are__. __I __just __wanted __a __chance__. __It__'__s __more __than __I __deserved__, __but __all __I __hoped __for__. _

_I __wanted __to __prove __how __much __I __love __you__. __And __although __it__'__s __not __in __the __way __I __hoped__, __I __have __found __a __way__. __I __hope __that __after __this__, __you __go __out __into __the __world __and __show __it __how __remarkable__, __how __amazing__, __that __you __are__. __That __you __achieve __all __you __want __and __more __is __my __wish __for __you__. _

_There__'__s __so __much __more __I __want __to __say__, __but __I __don__'__t __have __the __time__. __So__, __just __one __more __time__, __I __love __you__. _

_Chuck_

The utter sincerity, the sense of Chuck that came through in his letter, made her tremble. Sarah closed her eyes and bowed her head, her hands tightening on the letter and making the paper crumple. Her body felt completely out of her control, her shoulders jerking as she tried to hold in her feelings. But she couldn't do that. So she dropped the letter in her lap, pressed her palms to her face, and wept.

She cried hot, salty tears, her crying bearing no resemblance to those few past occasions when she had been driven to tears. Her sobs were full of anger and frustration and desperation. Damn him. Damn his sweet letter, full of tenderness and support and love. Damn his little jokes and his consideration for her. Damn his eyes and his smiles and the way he smelled like pine trees and how he made her feel. Because he did make her feel, so much and so strongly that she couldn't deny it. Not anymore.

It wasn't enough for the world to have a living, breathing Chuck. It wasn't even enough if Chuck loved her. Not if she couldn't love him back.

Because he was right: she had denied her feelings. She hadn't understood how she reacted to him, hadn't wanted to explore what she felt. From the moment she had met him, she had tried to hold him at arm's length because deep down, on an instinctive level, she knew he could change her life. Make her want something different, want it enough to give up the future she had always wanted.

Sarah pulled her hands away from her face, gulping in air as she tried to stop sobbing. She needed to go to Count Mendoza's house, she needed to come up with a way to get into that house, she needed to find Chuck and make sure he wasn't dead. But at this moment, she felt paralyzed by how much she loved him.

Just being in this room, filled with his things and that faint scent that meant "Chuck" lingering in the air, all she could think of was him. His wide, happy smiles. The way he figured out what her favorite flower was. His shabby doublet and how proud he had been of the trim because Morgan had sewed it on. The respect and courtesy he had always shown her, even in a situation where he could have taken advantage of her.

If he was gone, she would never get to tell him how she felt. How he made her feel. How he was showing her a way to grow, to evolve. To tear down the barricade she had built around her heart, because it was time to actually use her heart instead of hiding it.

And all she wanted was to give this a chance. Give them a chance. Find out what it was like to really kiss Chuck, learn how to tell him about herself, figure out what kind of woman she was and if she was brave enough to face an unknown future. But she thought that if she had Chuck by her side, giving up her dream of being a spy would be a little bit less scary. Could she say that about anyone else?

Rubbing her hands over her face, Sarah sat up straight and looked down at the letter in her lap. She carefully smoothed out the paper, then folded it and secured it in the pocket of her apron. She knew where she needed to go, she just needed to come up with a plan. Standing up, Sarah looked around the room, soaking up the feel of Chuck she had from being in the place where he lived. Then she blew out the candle and stepped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

As she walked down the stairs, the moonlight was fading as the sun rose. There were more people on the street now, so she nearly missed seeing John Casey until she was almost on top of him.

"Casey!" she spluttered.

He nodded. "Walker. Let's get back to the palace." He took her elbow, his fingers brushing against the stiletto hidden in the sleeve of her dress.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

"Helpin' you," he replied cockily. "You think you're gonna be able to save Carmichael all on your own?"

Sarah opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. She could do this on her own . . . but having someone like Casey along would let her get to Chuck that much faster. "I could do it," Sarah said, "but it would be good to have your help."

Casey grunted. "So what's your plan?" He led her through the streets, moving with purpose.

"Your help changes what I had planned," Sarah said, thankful that the pale sunlight would disguise the tear stains on her face.

"Then figure somethin' out," he said, stepping up to a ferry landing.

She made a face at him, then stepped into a ferry. It took half the trip to Greenwich for Sarah to work out a new strategy.

"When we get to the house, we'll look around for how to get inside. I'll go in the front door and distract the count while you enter from a servant's entrance or a back door," Sarah said, starting slowly but gaining confidence as she kept speaking. "You'll find Chuck, I'll eliminate the count, and then we'll take him away."

"Eliminate?" Casey asked, raising his eyebrows. "You're gonna-" He pantomimed drawing a knife across his throat.

"If I have to," Sarah said, hearing the calmness in her voice. And it was true: with Chuck's life on the line, she would do anything to save him. Even if it might change his opinion of her. Because she couldn't let him die.

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. "Pretty damn foolish plan, but it just might work."

"Your vote of confidence is appreciated," Sarah said dryly. For the rest of the ferry ride, they were silent. She slid her hand into her pocket, touching Chuck's letter.

There wasn't enough light for Sarah to read the letter, and she wasn't about to do so in front of Casey. But once she was back at the palace, she needed to take a moment to look at the letter one more time. One more time, to give her the courage that Chuck thought she had. The courage that she hadn't really discovered until she realized he was almost lost to her.

Breathing deeply, not minding the pungent odor of the Thames, Sarah looked over towards Southwark. Somewhere in that province of theaters, bear-baiting, gambling and other illegal pursuits, Chuck was being held. And she was going to save him.

End, Chapter 6


	8. Chapter 7

**Ready ****at ****Your ****Hand****, ****Chapter**** 7 (8/10)**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: In the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, a Catholic plot against the queen comes to the attention of spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham. To protect Elizabeth, he develops an unusual plan: hide the passing of intelligence between two agents by a false romance. When Lady Sarah Walker and Chuck Carmichael meet, though, their pretend flirtation becomes much more.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author****'****s ****Note**: This chapter is perhaps the one that I labored over the most. It's thanks to victorianoir / Steampunk . Chuckster that it's as tense and as thrilling as I hope you'll find it. And when you reach the end, please don't throw things at me. :-)

XXX

"I call God to witness that as a private person I have done nothing unbeseeming an honest man, nor, as I bear the place of a public man, have I done anything unworthy of my place."

Sir Francis Walsingham

XXX

As another punch landed on his midsection, Chuck cut off his gasp by driving his teeth into his lower lip. But since he had already done that several times, as well as taken a few hits to the mouth, his action made the blood pour from his lip and down his neck.

He spit a little, trying to clear the blood from his mouth so he could draw in some air without choking. His nose felt funny and it hurt to breathe through it.

The first conversation with Count Mendoza, Ferdinand and Chuck had not involved any actual physical violence. As Count Mendoza had questioned him, pacing in front of Chuck, Ferdinand had stood just out of Chuck's eyesight. Every so often, Ferdinand had reached out with a punch or a slap, but none of the blows connected.

When it became clear that Chuck would not reveal anything useful, Count Mendoza had glared at him. "Enough. We will take a break, I think." With that, Mendoza and Ferdinand had withdrawn, leaving Chuck alone.

As the minutes passed, Chuck did his best to stay focused. To not let his imagination get away from him, to keep the fear from making him careless. He had to stay quiet and not reveal what he knew about Sir Francis's operations, however little it was.

Suddenly, the door was flung open and Count Mendoza returned, stomping into the room. "Tell me what you know, Mr. Carmichael."

"I don't know anything," Chuck said, trying his best to sound matter-of-fact.

The count glared at him. "I think I will leave you alone with Ferdinand for a little while. To see if he might be able to loosen your tongue." Mendoza turned to Ferdinand and spoke in rapid Spanish before moving towards the door.

As soon as the ambassador left the room, Ferdinand had lumbered around to face Chuck. His expression didn't have the kind of delighted glee or veiled frustration that Chuck had seen on Count Mendoza's face. No, Ferdinand looked . . . bored. Terribly, terribly bored. And for some reason, that made Chuck feel even more nervous.

Chuck swallowed, twisting his wrists a little inside the shackles. "You know, you could just pretend to hit me and I can scream for real. I can scream very convincingly."

Ferdinand blinked, then shrugged. "I am not here to talk, _señor_," he said, spreading his enormous hands wide.

"Oh. Of course not," Chuck said. He took a deep breath, wondering if he should brace himself for a punch or relax-

Without warning, Ferdinand's massive fist flew into his ribcage, knocking Chuck back against the stone wall. He wanted to cough, gasp, arch away from the wall and curl over his stomach, all at the same time. Instead, he just tried to breathe. The next punch hit him in the side of his jaw, propelling his head against his shoulder.

Although he had been Morgan's protector since they were small, Chuck had only been involved in a few fights over the years. Most of the time, Chuck would protect his head from any punches while he did his best to push and shove instead of hitting anyone. Once he got to Cambridge, he had accompanied Sir Bryce to his boxing club a few times, but Chuck hadn't liked it and stopped attending. All in all, Chuck had lived his life avoiding fights as much as he could. So he had little experience with being punched.

Even with all the experience in the world, though, Chuck doubted he could have made this easier on himself. Ferdinand rained blows upon him, concentrating mainly on Chuck's face and torso, but also kicking his legs out from under him, slapping his face, pinching and scratching his skin.

He didn't know how long it lasted. It felt like forever. The pain made him see stars, made him groan and gasp when it was too much to bear. And when that happened, he thought about Sarah. He pictured them in the gardens at the palace, walking the paths through the plants and flowers. Sarah would occasionally glance at him and smile, her eyes soft.

She looked happy. At peace. And that helped him to ignore the pain a little. Ignore it until it suddenly was too much and he passed out.

XXX

As the ferry carried Sarah and Casey back to the palace in the early dawn light, they had a disagreement.

"We need to find out where Mendoza is. Here's what we're gonna do. You get gussied up and I'll do some lookin' around," Casey said gruffly. "I find him, I come back and get you and we'll do your plan."

"That could take hours," she protested.

"You gettin' all cleaned up?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Sarah glared at him. "That's not what I meant and you know it. Stop playing dumb."

"Look, just showin' up at that house ain't gonna do you any good if Mendoza's not there," Casey said. "And once you get all pretty, you'll stick out like a sore thumb. Lemme go look around Southwark, and if the Spanish monkey is there, we're on."

Setting her jaw, Sarah tried to accept the logic of Casey's offer. She knew he was right, but she didn't want to wait any longer. The nervous energy inside her was straining to be released, leading to her fidgeting and pacing. All she wanted was to stride into that house, find Chuck, and destroy Mendoza.

But if they went in blind, without any information, they might fail. And it wasn't just Sarah's life on the line; if they made any mistakes, it was quite likely that Chuck would be killed. And she couldn't afford such a risk. And there was Casey and his life to consider, too. So taking a deep breath, she had assented to Casey's plan as the ferry scraped against the palace's ferry landing.

"All right, then. Meet me here in two hours," he said, waiting for her to step out of the boat. "Be ready to go."

She nodded in grudging agreement, then turned to watch as the ferryman pulled back out into the river. Despite what Casey thought, it wouldn't take her that long to get ready to charm the Spanish ambassador. The two hours he was gone would give her too much time to think. To worry. But rather than give in to her worry, Sarah focused on her anger. On her determination. Nothing would keep her from saving Chuck. Nothing.

Once she saw the boat fade into the distance, she turned and headed towards the palace. She hurried through the halls, keeping her eyes low and avoiding any interactions. When Sarah entered her room, she found a note on her dressing table.

_Told __everyone __you __were __ill __with __your __monthly __flux __and __you __wanted __to __be __left __alone__. __That __should __give __you __until __tonight__-__hope __you __took __advantage __of __it__. __Give __Chuck __a __kiss __from __me__! __Catherine_

The saucy note made Sarah smile tightly. If everything went right, it would be a long time before Sarah would be ready to kiss Chuck as anyone but herself. She gave herself a moment to remember what it had been like to kiss Chuck, to think about how his lips felt against hers and dream about how a real kiss might feel. Then, with a shake of her head, Sarah had begun changing her clothes.

This was the most important hour of primping in her life, Sarah thought darkly as she dressed in her most provocative dress. It was tight, low-cut, and in a shade of bright red that had garnered her far too much attention. Two years ago, she had been grateful to shove it to the back of her wardrobe. But now, to charm Count Mendoza, it was the best dress she owned.

It felt wrong. She could barely get the stiletto up her sleeve, and when she bent down to strap her dagger to her ankle, she held her breath so as not to split any seams. With a dress so tight, she would have to hope quick movement wasn't necessary. It might mean she would have to strike fast, in one killing blow, instead of any prolonged hand-to-hand combat. But that didn't matter to her now. She would carve to ribbons anyone who got in her way now. All the times Mendoza had stared at her breasts or held her hand too long, watched her like a cat guarding a mousehole . . . she would have to turn the tables on him. And she would do that and much more to save Chuck.

Sarah applied some cosmetics, added a necklace that draped across the tops of her breasts, and stood up from her dressing table. For a moment, she hesitated, looking at the letter from Chuck she had recovered from his room earlier. With all her heart, she wanted to bring it with her. But if she lost it, she'd always feel the ache of its loss. So after re-reading it, she carefully folded it and hid it in the drawer of her dressing table. Quickly she drew a cloak over her outfit and walked out towards the landing.

Her mind, like a plow in a furrow, moved relentlessly forward, preparing herself for what came next. She was so focused that she practically walked into Sir Francis, as they both approached the door that provided the most direct route to the palace's ferry landing.

"Sir Francis!" she croaked, stepping back from him. Even with her cloak covering her gown and her weapons fastened to her legs, Sarah felt vulnerable. Exposed. Like anyone could look at her and see everything she was thinking and feeling. It was an unsettling feeling. And the fact that it was Sir Francis, her mentor and guardian, looking at her now . . . that feeling was doubled.

"Lady Sarah," he said, his eyes narrowed.

Drawing her cloak closer around herself, she lifted her chin. "Is there any news about the plot?"

The spymaster stepped closer to her. "Sarah, what are you doing?"

"Asking a simple question," she replied, keeping her eyes locked on his. She wasn't sure, by his question or his attitude, if he had actually received her letter from last night, the one with her plan to save Chuck. Thinking quickly, Sarah decided to act as if he had no idea of her plans, so she repeated her question. "Is there any news about the plot?"

"We are preparing to move," Sir Francis said, his jaw tight. "Soon we will have Count Mendoza, and with him the network will fall apart." He paused. "We have word about Mr. Carmichael and his friend."

For just a moment, Sarah felt hope pierce her anger, like a bubble rising in a pot. Perhaps she wouldn't have to do this-perhaps Chuck was already safe! "Have they been rescued?"

When Sir Francis shook his head, Sarah's spine stiffened. The moment of hope made her anger feel even colder and harder. "Then I must ask you to excuse me, Sir Francis."

"Sarah, your plan to find him is utter nonsense," Sir Francis said, taking her shoulder in his hand. She felt her heart sink as his words resonated; he had gotten her letter and knew what she was going to do.

"You are letting your heart rule your head," Sir Francis continued. "Rushing in to save Mr. Carmichael without any knowledge of the situation, venturing forth totally unprotected . . . No intelligencer lets emotions rule their head. It's the first thing you learned."

"No, it's not," she said, shrugging off his hand. "I learned how to use knives to wound, how to speak four other languages, how to deliver a message in a crowded room without anyone noticing. I learned all those skills and now I'm ready-" Sarah bit her lip, halting herself from going any farther. From revealing just how compromised she was.

He leaned down and spoke quietly. "I must urge you to reconsider whatever you're planning, Sarah. You are risking too much. As soon as we have Mendoza, I swear to you, Mr. Carmichael will be found and receive the attention he needs."

"And if he's not already dead, I'm sure he would be grateful for such treatment," she snapped, stepping away. "But I can't let that happen to Chuck. I won't let that happen."

"It's too dangerous, Sarah," Sir Francis said, but then one of his clerks dashed up to him. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Sarah escaped.

Her skirts whirled around her as she stalked towards the ferry landing. Her fury towards Mendoza was now partially directed towards Sir Francis. How dare he doubt her, after teaching her to be a spy? He had no idea what she could achieve, because he had no desire to find a use for her skills. But she wasn't about to sit in the palace like a good girl, doing her sewing while Chuck faced countless horrors all alone, thinking that she didn't care about him.

When she reached the landing, she shielded her eyes, trying to find the boat that would be bringing Casey back to the palace. He was late. What if something had happened? They hadn't talked about a contingency plan-an oversight that she was scolding herself for now. She was trained for just this sort of mission, so she needed to trust herself. Use everything she had learned to save Chuck.

The wind off the river was cool, drying the sweat that had collected on her temples. As she watched the ferries and barges and other craft sail by, Sarah clenched her fists tightly. The longer she waited, the more likely Chuck was being beaten senseless or tortured. Why had she let Casey squirm his way into her plan? Her chest tightened. If this delay turned out to have made the difference, she didn't know how she would cope.

And the delay also gave her time to think. Time to wonder if perhaps, Sir Francis might be right. If she was being foolhardy, rushing into something she wasn't prepared for. Even with Casey's help, was she ready to do this? Yes, she might be trained on using knives and felt angry enough to kill Mendoza, but before she got to that point, what would she have to do?

She didn't want to wear this dress, she didn't want Mendoza to see her in such a skimpy garment, and she didn't want to smile at him and flirt with him. In the back of her mind, Sarah thought that she had assigned a role to herself that she would have strenuously objected to, if it had been Sir Francis doing the assigning. But if she was willing to kill Count Mendoza in order to save Chuck, having him ogle her cleavage shouldn't matter. Somehow, though, it did.

Swallowing, Sarah tried to push aside her misgivings. Instead of letting her thoughts go round in a circle, she made herself review the sword fighting she had learned, strategizing how best to disable Mendoza. It started to calm her down, until she caught sight of Casey and felt her anxiety increase dramatically. When the ferry pulled up to the landing, she practically jumped into the boat.

"Well?" she said, barely letting herself settle on the wooden seat.

"Mendoza's there," Casey said. He looked to the ferryman. "Back to Southwark."

"Aye," the ferryman said, stroking the oars as he slowly moved the boat away from the landing.

Sarah felt a wave of relief at Casey's news. Now they could put the plan into action. It might not be a good strategy, something that Sir Francis would have come up with. But she was going to do everything she could to succeed. To save Chuck.

Casey leaned in towards her, his voice pitched low. "There's an entrance to a coal cellar off the back of the house-but the house is pristine. They don't burn coal in that house. So I'm gonna go in through there and see what I find."

"As soon as you find Chuck, get him out of there," Sarah said. "Don't worry about me. I'll stall the ambassador for as long as I can."

"And where am I supposed to take him?" Casey asked grumpily.

She frowned. "The palace is out, and it doesn't seem wise to take him back to his lodgings . . . perhaps a public house?"

"It'd be the first place they look," Casey said. He looked at her, then rolled his eyes. "I'll take him back to my house."

"You have a house?" she asked in surprise.

"I rent a place over by the Tower," Casey said. "On Fenchurch Street. Nice and secure, and easy to get to from Southwark-just nip across the bridge."

No trip across London Bridge was "just a nip"; getting through the traffic that snarled the only crossing of the Thames within the city could take hours. But the Spanish ambassador wouldn't connect John Casey with herself or Chuck, especially since Mendoza and his fellow plotters didn't know how Chuck had gotten his messages to Sir Francis.

With a nod, Sarah accepted Casey's offer. "I'll meet you there as soon as I'm able."

"Right," Casey said and a silence fell between them. As Southwark began to come into view, Sarah folded her hands in her lap. Soon, she would see Chuck. Know what had happened to him. End this gnawing ache inside her, the ache that came from finally realizing her feelings when it might be too late. Too late to tell Chuck how she felt, to see how he reacted to finding out that she loved him, too.

"You sure about this?" Casey asked as the ferry pulled up to a landing not far from London Bridge. "I could do the distractin' while you get Carmichael out."

For a moment, she was tempted. But then she shook her head. "If I can keep Count Mendoza off-balance, you'll have enough time to find Chuck. And . . . and depending on his condition, you can get him out of the house easier than I could."

He grunted and helped her out of the boat before paying the ferryman. Taking her arm, he started walking with her through the narrow, cramped streets, full of people in search of that which was illegal in London proper. Thanks to the protection of the Bishop of Winchester, Southwark and its neighbor Bankside were full of vice: gamblers, lightskirts, pickpockets and con men, all plying their trades near the notorious prison called the Clink.

Having never been to Southwark, Sarah looked around as much as she could as they walked. It wasn't just curiosity; she would need to know how to get out of the rabbit warren of streets and find her way towards London Bridge once she was done with Count Mendoza.

After about ten minutes of walking, the surroundings grew less like a cramped city and more rural. Casey paused at the intersection of two roads, then nodded towards a whitewashed house, halfway down the leafy lane. "That's it."

It didn't look like a building full of evil; the thatch roof was in good repair, the whitewash was freshly applied, and the fence that enclosed the yard was painted a bright green. Rarely had she ever seen a clearer demonstration of appearances being deceiving.

She took a deep breath and let go of Casey's arm. "I'll go the rest of the way by myself."

"I'm gonna loop around to the back. Take your time before knockin' on that door," Casey said. He unbuttoned his doublet and revealed two long, lethal-looking half-swords strapped over his chest. After quickly checking them, Casey fastened most of the buttons back up, allowing himself access to the hilts of the swords. He gave her a small salute, then walked up the other street, disappearing into the yard of a house.

Following Casey's instructions, Sarah slowly walked up the lane. She felt very conspicuous and drew her cloak tighter around her as she walked. Even though she wanted to run to the door and pound on it before demanding to see Count Mendoza, she kept her pace to an amble. Once she was standing in front of the house, she lifted the door knocker and let it fall heavily against the wide wood planks of the sturdy-looking door.

The door was opened by a small, hunchbacked man-a dwarf, Sarah could see. He looked up at her, his eyes squinting.

"I wish to see Count Mendoza," Sarah said, doing her best to keep her voice even. To hold back the fear that was starting to eat away at the fire of righteous anger inside her.

"Who?" the dwarf asked, his accent thick.

"Count Mendoza," she repeated slowly.

"And who are you?"

It was absolutely necessary for the dwarf to admit her to the house. If there was no distraction for Casey, he might not be able to save Chuck. So, even though she could feel her skin crawling, Sarah loosened her cloak, spreading it wide enough for the dwarf to take in her low-cut dress. "Lady Sarah Walker."

The dwarf grinned lasciviously. "Ahh, _si_. I tell the count. Come in, _dama_."

She wasn't sure if it was her name or her dress that gained her admittance. Her name notwithstanding, he clearly thought she was a lightskirt. Swallowing back her embarrassment at having to act such a role and trying to stay angry, she drew her cloak back around her body. "Thank you," she said, in her most imperious manner. She stepped inside and followed the dwarf into a small, dusty sitting room.

He bowed once she was inside the room. "The count comes soon. Wait." He pulled shut the doors that lead to the hall, leaving Sarah alone.

There were only two pieces of furniture in the room: a velvet chaise longue that appeared grimy and flea-ridden and a table holding an empty decanter and water-spotted glasses. Not wanting to take a seat, Sarah stood in the middle of the room, trying to control her nerves. She just had to flatter Count Mendoza enough to keep him distracted by using her physical assets. She could do that. She had watched Catherine enough times to know many ways to keep a man off-balance.

It should be so simple. Some flirting, batting her eyes, letting him look down her bodice . . . it was nothing. It was a means to an end. To getting Chuck back, to exacting revenge on Mendoza for every injury he had given Chuck. But she still felt guilty. Ashamed of having to use her feminine wiles in this manner, when a man would not likely be expected to seduce an enemy. It made her question just how well she had been trained by Sir Francis and just what she thought she could have done as an actual spy.

Not to mention there was Chuck. If she got through this, if Chuck was all right, she would have to tell him what she had done. And finding out that she had thrown herself at another man in order to save him . . . would Chuck understand? Would he forgive her? He had already shown such a vast store of patience and forgiveness; would this be what he could not forget and would not forgive?

Sarah sighed softly and pulled her gloves off, then removed her cloak and set them down on the chaise. It was pointless to worry about future confessions and reactions at this time. She needed to keep her sights focused on this moment. Right now, she had to keep Mendoza in this room, and the best way of doing that, given their history, was by flirting with him. She could do this. If doing this would save Chuck, she would be able to push down her revulsion and shame and get through. She tried to call upon her anger again, but it wouldn't come. So she made herself think of Chuck.

XXX

Chuck was jerked from sweet, painless oblivion by a bucket of cold, foul-smelling water. He shook his head, sending waves of pain through his body. At least it helped clear his mind enough to focus.

Ferdinand was stepping back, the now-empty bucket in his hand, allowing Count Mendoza to become visible to Chuck's one good eye. "Good, you are awake, Mr. Carmichael," the count said. "I see that Ferdinand's handiwork has, for once, borne little fruit."

Thanks to his cracked, puffy lips and missing teeth, Chuck's words were somewhat slurred. "Because I know nothing."

"Come, come, Mr. Carmichael," Mendoza said, sounding annoyed. "There's no sense lying to us. We must know what you know."

He slowly licked his lips to capture the remaining moisture from the bucket's contents, even if the liquid tasted soapy and vile. It also gave him a moment to come up with something. He didn't know if he could hold out much longer. Maybe if he gave them some small nugget of information . . .

It was a false hope, Chuck knew. He couldn't give in, couldn't reveal anything no matter how insignificant. What he knew wouldn't be enough to satisfy Mendoza. And he would not betray Sir Francis. So he brought up the image of Sarah in the gardens, letting himself get lost in watching her in his mind.

Sadly, his relief was short-lived. A hard slap across his face brought Chuck out of his head and back into the real world.

"You refuse to answer?" Mendoza asked, his voice harsh.

Instead of saying anything, Chuck just looked at the count, taking in Mendoza's annoyance.

"Very well. It's providential that your accomplice, Lady Sarah, has just arrived."

What? What did he just say?

Chuck's voice was a croak. "Lady Sarah? She's here?"

Mendoza's self-satisfied smirk grew almost gloating. "She's waiting for me upstairs. And according to my manservant, she is most eager for my presence, if her clothing is any guide."

Letting his thoughts and emotions show would be a major mistake. He had to hold back and not give the count any further ammunition to hurt Chuck. But it did hurt, to think of Sarah so close, with no idea that he was here . . .

Wait a moment. Why would Sarah come here, wherever 'here' was? Why would she want to see Mendoza? Regardless of anything she might feel towards Chuck, he knew that Sarah disliked the Spanish ambassador. If she was here, maybe it had something to do with Sir Francis's plans to uncover the plot against the Queen.

That idea gave Chuck a new reason to stay silent. If he could help Sarah, he would do it. So he set his jaw and told himself to say not a word.

"I have long admired Lady Sarah. Her looks are quite stunning, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Carmichael?" When Chuck said nothing, Mendoza kept speaking. "I thought she seemed rather taken with you. Perhaps she saw the error of her ways."

Suddenly, the count was beside Chuck, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "I will show her just how wrong she was to waste her time with you. She will discover what a real man is, how a real man can satisfy her. And I am just the man to instruct her in the ways of love."

He knew that Mendoza was trying to goad him. And there was nothing he wanted to do more than defend Sarah and defend himself. To tell Mendoza that Sarah wasn't some bar wench, to be used and then cast aside. But he wouldn't let the count know that his words hurt more than Ferdinand's blows. Closing his eyes, Chuck bit his tongue, the spark of pain helping him focus on what he must do.

"It's too bad you won't be able to watch," Mendoza said, straightening up as he stepped back from Chuck. "You could learn much from my performance, I think. But what a shame it would be, to know all the secrets and not be able to use them! Ah, well." Mendoza shrugged. He turned to Ferdinand and spoke in Spanish.

"Enjoy this respite, Mr. Carmichael," the count said, moving towards the door. "I have told Ferdinand to begin preparing the _porto_. I believe here in England it is called the rack."

In spite of his best intentions, Chuck couldn't help a small shudder at the name of the infamous torture device. Mendoza smirked. "You are familiar with it! How wonderful. I look forward to seeing just how much taller you might become." He let out an amused laugh and walked out of the room without a backwards glance.

Alone in the room, Chuck slumped against the wall, letting himself breathe as deeply as he could. Pain gripped his whole body, each ache different: one sharp and piercing, another dull and throbbing. There had been no food or water since his arrival, and while he could handle the hunger pains, his thirst was growing more and more intense. His clothing was ripped and tattered, providing no protection from the cold chill in the air. And Mendoza was going to put him on the rack as soon as he was done with Sarah.

Chuck yanked in frustration on his shackles, not for the first time. But like all the other times, all that happened was the metal cuffs digging into the skin of his wrists. He kept pulling, hoping that he might free himself. Then he could stop Mendoza and get Sarah away from here and-

A bitter laugh escaped him. Imagining himself as some kind of hero was the height of folly. He wasn't a hero. He wouldn't find a way to escape and he wouldn't find a way to save the woman he loved. It was hopeless.

Letting his head hang, Chuck felt all the fight drain out of him. He couldn't imagine Sarah in the garden anymore, not when he knew she was upstairs, facing God only knew what from Count Mendoza. Although his imagination was definitely providing him with a variety of images and suggestions, all of which made his heart break more.

Maybe it was better this way, he thought dimly as he sank into darkness.

XXX

She had kept her back to the doors, relying on her ears to alert her when it was time to assume her part. Women could not act on the stage in England, but Sarah knew she had to give a performance that could eclipse any man's. And if she wasn't facing the doors, it gave her an extra moment to steady herself.

It had been nearly ten minutes, she estimated, since she had been shown into this room. The longer she had to wait, the less time she had to spend with Count Mendoza. She only hoped that Casey would make the most of the minutes. She licked her lips and adjusted her dress, trying to make it more comfortable.

With a screech, the doors slid open. "Lady Sarah, what a pleasure to find you here," came Count Mendoza's silky, drawling voice.

Giving herself one last reminder of why she was here, she slowly turned her head and looked over her shoulder at him, giving him her best attempt at a sultry smile. "Count Mendoza." Her voice was pitched low and soft, designed to draw him in.

Right on cue, he moved closer to her. She waited until he was within an arm's length of her before she turned around, letting him have the full impact of her clinging, low-cut gown.

In that moment, Sarah realized that she had more strength than she realized. It gave her the courage to stand still as his eyes crawled over her revealed flesh, gave her the courage to rest her hand on her hip and strike a flirtatious pose. She couldn't let anything crack the image she was presenting. Count Mendoza was a man, but he was cunning enough to sense any discrepancies in her attitude if she let her distaste show on her face for even a second.

"You must be surprised to see me," she said, holding her hand out to him.

"It is a surprise, but one that I'm most excited to be experiencing," Mendoza said, taking her hand and lightly kissing her knuckles, his lips actually making contact with her skin, contrary to proper etiquette.

Although she wanted to yank her hand away, Sarah let him keep holding her fingers. "I know it's not expected for a lady like me to show up on your doorstep . . . but after your warning, I found myself unable to think of anything else. Of anyone else."

"Is that so, Lady Sarah?" His free hand landed on her wrist, lightly stroking her skin. As they talked, his eyes kept flicking down to her cleavage.

She nodded, adopting a shy, pleading expression. "When you told me about Mr. Carmichael, I was so distressed. I felt silly for misjudging him so greatly." She breathed deeper, giving her bosom an extra heave.

"You are very young, Lady Sarah. And Mr. Carmichael is a practiced rogue. It is little wonder that you fell victim to his ploy," Mendoza said, his eyes almost visibly moving up and down in time with the movement of her chest.

The ease at which she was manipulating him made Sarah feel sick to her stomach. Or was he playing a part just like she was? What if the ambassador knew the real reason she was here and was trying to control her? With doubt creeping into her mind, she nearly gave up on her seduction and reached for the stiletto. But even as the thought crossed her mind, Sarah pushed it aside. She needed to give Casey more time.

"I am so very fortunate to have someone like you protecting me," Sarah said, giving the count a look full of gratitude and admiration. She ducked her head and affected a maidenly blush. "I hope I'm not too forward in coming here. But . . . but I wanted to show my appreciation in private."

Mendoza's fingers, which had been more rubbing the skin of her wrist than stroking, stilled. "And just how do you want to show this appreciation, Lady Sarah?" He licked his lips, leaning in towards her.

A feeling of disgust curdled in her stomach and Sarah took a step back. Then she gathered herself and let out a soft sigh. "I have so little to offer," she said, looking at him through her eyelashes, imitating a move she had seen Catherine make whenever she wanted to look demure and innocent. "I feel like my thanks aren't enough."

"I did not warn you about Mr. Carmichael in order to gain your thanks, Lady Sarah," the count said. His back straightened and he looked off into the distance, assuming what she guessed he believed to be a heroic pose.

"Then why did you do it, Count Mendoza?" she asked, injecting a breathless note into her voice.

"Because it was the right thing to do, even though it caused you pain-a most regrettable fact, I'm sorry to say, and it was that knowledge that gave me pause before sharing Mr. Carmichael's duplicity with you," he said, focusing his beady dark eyes on her eyes for a moment. His voice was growing rougher, as if he was having trouble saying the polite phrases. As if he knew what she was offering and couldn't wait to get it. "If I could have achieved the revelation of Mr. Carmichael's true nature without hurting you, I would have done so even sooner." As soon as he finished speaking, his gaze flicked back to her cleavage before sliding down her torso and lingering on her hips.

Sarah felt like she was a particularly toothsome piece of meat, being eyed by the cook before Sunday dinner. In a moment the count would begin carving her into pieces, she thought with a touch of hysteria. Why had she picked this course of action? Especially now that she knew how she felt about Chuck, when the thought of any other man touching her intimately made her recoil? She couldn't go on like this. There must be a way for her to gain access to her dagger or stiletto and wound Mendoza enough for her to get away.

A sudden knock on the door was like manna from heaven. The count scowled, then looked at her, all honey and sweetness. "Excuse me, Lady Sarah. I gave strict orders that we were not to be disturbed. It appears one of my servants misunderstood me." He sketched a small bow, then went over and opened the sitting room's doors, carrying on a quiet yet angry conversation with an absolute ox of a man.

She had barely been with the count for five minutes. If she could give Casey just a few more minutes, that would have to be enough. Sarah felt a small flicker of disappointment at herself, for shirking her part in today's mission. She could do more to distract Mendoza; jumping straight to violence upon his person would only satisfy her and would gain little advantage for herself and Casey. Yet . . . if being an intelligencer meant fulfilling her role in spite of how it demeaned and humiliated her-was it worth it?

Such thoughts were worthy of deeper reflection. But now was not the time. In five minutes, she could drop her charade and draw her weapon. Plunge it into Mendoza's shoulder, or his side, or maybe into his heart. And then she would be free.

The count finished his conversation and closed the doors. To Sarah's surprise, he withdrew a key and locked the doors with an emphatic click of the lock. Then he turned to Sarah, a slimy smile on his face as he pocketed the key. "Now we won't be disturbed while you . . . express your gratitude."

As she looked at the dark man approaching her, the fear that she had barely managed to keep at bay tore loose of its bindings, like a rampaging bull. She couldn't help breathing heavier, even though it gave Mendoza a show. She had thought she could deal with him. But what if she couldn't? True, his height barely matched her own, and he was thin and gaunt. Yet just like this building, his appearance could be deceiving. If that was the case, she was now in great danger.

XXX

When he woke up, nothing had changed. He was still chained to the wall. He was still bloody and suffering. There was still no hope of escape. But something must have pulled him into consciousness. Chuck felt a small glimmer of curiosity. What had caused him to wake up?

He didn't feel better or worse than before, so pain wasn't the reason he had become conscious. It didn't feel like much time had passed. Maybe there had been some kind of noise. Chuck strained his ears, trying to determine if someone was coming. He moved away from the wall, wishing the chains clanked a little quieter, and got as close to the door as he could.

There was something . . . it sounded a bit like panting. He kept listening, then jumped when there was a loud thud and a whoosh, like air escaping someone's lungs.

His wonder grew at the sounds of some kind of fight taking place outside the room. What did this mean? His brain felt fuzzy and he couldn't think clearly. So he just stood and listened. After a few moments of punches and groans, there was a different noise, followed by a gasp.

That didn't sound good. He backed up against the wall, wincing when his sore back made contact with the stones. As the door scraped against the floor, Chuck closed his eyes and pretended to be unconscious.

Heavy footsteps crossed the floor, then a hand rested on his shoulder. The hand gave him a firm shake. "Carmichael. Carmichael!"

That voice . . . it sounded familiar, but he wasn't sure why. Chuck opened his eyes and looked up at a thickset man with close-cropped hair. He was dressed all in black and had a bloodied sword in his hand at his side.

"What-who . . . ?" he asked, too surprised to say anything else.

"Name's Casey. I'm gettin' you outta here."

At his words, Chuck felt his heart leap. "Really?"

"No, I'm just pullin' your leg and I'm about to turn around and leave." Casey shot Chuck a look, then started examining the shackles. "They got you in here good." Casey's eyes flicked over Chuck, and it seemed he wasn't just referring to Chuck's bindings.

"I don't know who has the key-maybe Ferdinand," Chuck suggested.

"Big meaty guy?" Casey asked.

"That's Ferdinand."

"He's dead and he didn't have any keys on him." Casey held up his sword and Chuck swallowed. That was Ferdinand's blood, then. He felt woozy, his stomach flipping over, and he slumped against the wall.

"Hey, Carmichael, look alive." Casey lightly slapped his face and Chuck groaned.

"Oww . . . who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"Told you, my name's Casey. I'm a member of the royal guard." He paused, then lowered his voice. "I work for Walsingham."

Chuck did his best to open his swelled-shut eye, trying to get a good look at Casey. "You do? You-you have to go tell him that Count Mendoza is here, he's going to-"

Casey grunted. "As if Walsingham don't already know that. Close your eyes."

"What?" Chuck spluttered, then reflexively squeezed his eyes shut as Casey lifted his sword and hit the chains holding Chuck to the wall. Sparks flew as metal clashed against metal and Chuck felt his heart pound.

Was this going to work?

XXX

"I must admit, I could not understand why you were interested in Mr. Carmichael, Lady Sarah." Mendoza walked around her, his voice patronizing. "He was certainly not worthy of the loveliest lady at Court. But now your eyes have been opened to his true value. Which is to say, he has none."

Even though it was unproductive, Sarah felt a spark of anger at the count's words. His judgments on Chuck were like rubbing salt into a wound, a wound she had to endure. But she grasped onto the anger, needed something to focus her. Something to help her get past her shame and ready herself to attack him.

"A country bumpkin, as you say, with no connections and no resources." Mendoza let out a caustic laugh. "His oddness must have been what attracted you."

It was on the tip of her tongue to defend Chuck, to offer up all the ways she had been moved by him. But instead, Sarah looked at him with her eyes lowered, her lips gently pursed. "I don't wish to talk about Mr. Carmichael. Not when I could be speaking of a man such as you."

"Hmm, yes," he said, stepping up towards her. Sarah mentally braced herself as he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. The press of his body against hers was distasteful; it felt so wrong. "Tell me what you think of me," he said softly, his voice urging her to respond.

The count's fingers moved over her lower back and Sarah took a deep breath, scrambling for appropriate compliments. "You are so cultured, Count Mendoza. Truly a remarkable man."

"Go on," he said eagerly, almost panting. He brought his free hand against her side, rubbing up and down slowly. His fingers were cold, pressing hard against the thin fabric of her dress.

Sarah licked her lips, shivering from distaste when Mendoza's eyes locked on her mouth. But he took it for a shiver of delight, from the way his arm tightened around her.

"Very . . . very powerful," she said, her mouth going dry as he leered at her, leaning towards her. She knew he was going to kiss her. Involuntarily, her body squirmed against his, trying to get away, but it only inflamed the ambassador, who smashed his lips against hers.

His mouth tasted like garlic. He shoved his tongue inside her mouth, wiggling it like a fish. And after the last two and a half days, the emotional upheaval she had faced, the anger and worry and fear that had been her constant companions . . . she was done with this. And she now realized that she couldn't be a spy. Not if she had to suffer through experiences like this.

With all her strength, Sarah pushed Mendoza away from her. He stumbled, the back of his legs hitting the chaise and forcing him to sit. She turned so her side faced him, bending down to reach under her skirt.

"Playing the coquette now, are you?" he said, his voice equal parts amusement and disdain. "It's too late for that-"

He stopped when he saw the stiletto and dagger in her hands. "Lady Sarah!"

She stepped towards him and rested the tip of the long, pointed blade against his chest, holding the dagger in a defensive position to back up the stiletto. "Yes, Count Mendoza?"

The count appeared flabbergasted by how the tables had been turned on him. He opened and closed his mouth and Sarah applied a bit of pressure with the tip of the stiletto. "Give me the key," she said, her voice low and sharp.

"What is the meaning of this, Lady Sarah?" he insisted, standing up. Any lust that had clouded his mind was rapidly dissipating thanks to her weapons. She stepped back as well, keeping the stiletto against his chest as she lifted the dagger to allow a slice at his neck if necessary.

"Give me the key," she repeated. "I don't need to stay here any longer."

His eyes narrowed. "You are some kind of distraction?"

Sarah didn't say anything, lifting her chin slightly. The count grimaced. "You work for Walsingham."

"No, I don't," she said, adjusting her grip on the dagger. Technically it might have been true, but she wasn't about to tell Mendoza that. "Now give me the key or you'll find out if I can use this knife."

He smirked at her. "If you meant that, you would have already stabbed me. You don't have the heart of a killer, it would seem."

It was true. Now that she was facing him, Sarah wasn't sure if she could kill him. Maybe it would have been different if Sir Francis had meant her to be an intelligencer, if he had her instructed in how to kill, if she was a true spy instead of one that he used grudgingly. But right now, she also realized that she didn't want to carry that stain on her soul. She had never really thought about it, never considered that as a spy she would have to kill. But with such a decision staring her in the face, she was hesitating, even when the man in front of her deserved to die.

If she killed him, she would have to tell Chuck that, too. And she knew that he wouldn't want that for her.

Believing her to be lost in thought, Mendoza tensed. Sarah caught the minute shift, but not in time. The count knocked aside the stiletto, the blade falling to the floor, then grabbed Sarah and grappled with her. She struggled, trying to move her dagger into position to lash out at him.

A pounding came on the locked doors. "Count Mendoza! Open these doors!" It was Sir Francis.

She tried to call out, but Mendoza had a hand around her throat, squeezing the air from her. Flailing, she drew her dagger across his chest, cutting through his thick doublet and nicking his skin. Then she stabbed at him, jabbing the blade into the arm that was wrapped around her throat.

His arm loosened and she pushed at him, finally breaking free. "Sir Francis!" she said, her voice raspy.

Mendoza gave her a look of distaste and shoved her to the floor. "Shut up and stay down, if you know what's good for you." He pulled the key out of his pocket and opened the doors. "Sir Francis, what is the meaning of this? You have invaded my home! King Philip will not stand for his representative to be treated in such a fashion."

The ambassador didn't even bother to adjust his slashed doublet or straighten his hair. He thought Sir Francis would cower in front of the might of Spain, Sarah thought. But she doubted that. She hid her dagger in her skirts as Sir Francis stepped into the room, his eyes sweeping around and latching on hers.

His lips tightened and he turned to Mendoza. "Sir, I regret to inform you that serious allegations against you have been communicated to me. There is enough proof to the validity of these allegations that I have no choice but to inform the Queen."

"Sir Francis, I deny any such allegations. I have never acted in a way that would damage Queen Elizabeth. I fear enemies of Spain have been whispering in your ear." The count's voice took on a confiding tone. "As you can see, Lady Sarah and I were having a moment. Might we discuss this tomorrow? We could meet at my residence for breakfast."

It was all Sarah could do not to boggle at Mendoza's reaction. Did he truly think Sir Francis would agree to such a plan? While the count's attention was fixed on Sir Francis, Sarah scooted towards her right and picked up the stiletto, holding it at the ready.

"I will not leave Lady Sarah here with you." Sir Francis gestured to Sarah, and she rose to her feet. She moved slowly to stand beside her mentor, knowing that he was bound to be upset with her actions to save Chuck. But at this point, it didn't matter.

So there was no hesitation when she stepped forward and held the dagger against Mendoza's throat, the stiletto gripped in her other hand and pointed directly at his stomach. "Where is Charles Carmichael?" she asked, staring into his eyes.

"Sir Francis, are you going to let this-this Whore of Babylon treat me in this manner?"

Sarah knew that Sir Francis should pull her back. After all, Mendoza was still the Spanish ambassador for the time being. But to her shock, Sir Francis said nothing. Glancing back, she saw him standing still, his arms folded across his chest. She turned back to Mendoza and pressed the dagger slightly harder against his neck. "Tell me, Count Mendoza. Where is Charles Carmichael?"

Mendoza's jaw clenched, but he said nothing, staying silent. Sarah felt her frustration rise. She had no idea if Casey had rescued Chuck, no idea if Chuck was even still alive. With all that she had gone through, she wasn't going to waste any more time on Mendoza. She pulled the dagger away, knowing that she had nicked his throat but not caring. Then she whirled around and started moving through the house, looking for a way into the cellar.

It took but a few moments for her to find a staircase that spiraled into the lower level of the house. She lifted up her skirts, not caring who saw her ankles as she dashed down the steps. The chill in the stone cellar immediately sank into her bones. Looking around, she saw a narrow hall and went in that direction. There was a small cell, its door hanging open, and Sarah stepped inside, her eyes sweeping over the space.

The first thing she noticed was the smell, rank and stale. The scent of blood, both old and fresh, hung in the air. She shivered as she looked around, feeling the innate fear in the room. Had Chuck been here? Was this the room he had been held in? Where was he?

A scrap of fabric on the floor caught her attention. She crouched down, tugging it away from a puddle of congealed liquid. It was woolen material of a faded red, and she knew it.

It was from Chuck's doublet.

She held in her hand proof that Chuck had been here. But unlike the room in his lodging house, there was no sense of him here. Nothing of his presence lingering in the air.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she rubbed them away with a grimy hand. Now wasn't the time to break down. She was so close to seeing Chuck again, so close to knowing if he was all right.

Standing up, she held the piece of fabric as if it was some kind of talisman. She just had to fetch her cloak before she could leave this place and make her way to the river. A trip across the Thames to the Tower of London would be all it would take for her to reach the man she loved.

Her steps were quick as she climbed the staircase and found her way back to the sitting room. Sir Francis was alone in the room, sitting on the chaise longue. When she walked into the room, he looked up and nodded. "I hoped you would come back here before you left."

Without waiting for a response, he stood up, holding her cloak. "Count Mendoza has been apprised that his protests notwithstanding, his ambassadorial privileges have been revoked. He'll be on his way back to Spain on the next available vessel."

Sarah's sigh of relief sprung from the depths of her soul. "Thank you," she said softly, letting him help her settle her cloak around her shoulders. She turned to face him, absentmindedly tying the strings of her cloak.

"We have some things to talk about, Lady Sarah," the spymaster said, his eyes dark and penetrating.

"Yes, I know," she said, returning his gaze. "I won't apologize for what I have done, because I have acted as I thought I should. But I do beg your forgiveness for any trouble I might have caused you."

If it was possible, she did not want to lose Sir Francis's support. He had been the closest thing to a parent she had possessed since she was seven years old, and although she hoped to begin a new life soon, she did not want to lose someone who had seen her at her lowest moment and helped her survive.

"I am thankful that you are unharmed, Sarah," he said, his voice quiet as he dropped the title he had given her all those years ago. "And grateful that my opinion matters to you."

"It does," she said, ducking her head. "I must leave now, though."

Sir Francis gently touched her shoulder. "Of course. You're worried about Mr. Carmichael."

Sarah nodded jerkily. "Yes, sir."

Her mentor gestured towards a guard standing just outside the sitting room doors. "James, take Lady Sarah to the river and help her find a ferry."

"And might James run an errand for me afterwards?" Sarah asked quickly, stepping towards the entrance to the house.

"All right," Sir Francis said, his agreement barely noted by her as she hurried out of the house. She was already on the street by the time the guard caught up with her. He panted by her side.

"What's the hurry, ma'am?"

"I have someone to see," Sarah said, picking up her pace.

XXX

As the cart jostled his broken body over the cobblestones, Chuck found himself longing for a ferry.

"Tell me again-why we're not-taking a boat?" Chuck gritted out through his teeth, looking up at Casey who sat slouched on the board seat at the front of the cart.

"Findin' a ferryman willin' to shoot the bridge at high tide would take too long. Plus, if we went into the water, you're in no shape to swim to shore," Casey said, glancing back at him. "We're crossing now."

Given the whirlpools and dangerous currents underneath London Bridge, Chuck knew that Casey was right. But the rough motions of the cart was agony on his body.

He should be grateful. Thanks to Casey, he was free, out of the clutches of Count Mendoza. The burly guard had managed to pull the chains from their holes in the stone wall, so even though the shackles were still around his wrists, he had been able to leave that house of horrors. And now he could lie on his back and breathe fresh air, feel the sun on his face when it peeked through the canopy of clouds. Soon, he would have a bed to rest in, food and drink, and the time to heal.

But there were so many worries crowding his mind.

"Are you sure you know nothing about Morgan?" Chuck asked Casey, raising his voice as much as he could over the din of the crowds pushing along the bridge. "You saw no sign of him? If we went to my lodgings, I could find out if he was released as Count Mendoza promised."

"Wouldn't trust a promise from him as far as I could throw him," Casey said bluntly. "But you were the only one down there. Seems to me they let your friend go."

Closing his eyes, Chuck hoped so as well. He knew that until he saw Morgan, he wouldn't be satisfied. Even though he had somehow managed to withstand beatings and questioning, even the threat of the rack, without divulging anything to Mendoza, he would consider himself a failure if Morgan had been hurt.

Or Sarah.

Chuck had long ago distanced himself from any real religious sentiment. He attended church as required and had even occasionally found some comfort during weekly services when his mind had paused to reflect on morals and ethics. Yet he still would not consider himself a religious man. But for the first time since before his parents had died, Chuck found himself praying.

"Please, God," he said in his mind, "please, protect Sarah. I know you have no reason to listen to me, but please, keep her safe."

A satisfied grunt from Casey interrupted his silent, unworthy prayers. "Off the bridge. Should be ten minutes 'fore we're at my house."

"And Sar-Lady Sarah knows to meet us there?"

"For the hundredth time, yes," Casey said, not even bothering to hide his annoyance.

He bit his lip, wincing from the pain. Perhaps it would be best to keep his questions to himself for a few minutes.

By the end of the predicted ten minutes, Casey had pulled the cart to a stop and stepped out of it. Without much care, he dragged Chuck out of the cart, ignoring his gasps.

The injuries he had suffered were becoming harder to ignore, harder to escape from. He wasn't able to observe any details about the house they had arrived at; all Chuck could focus on was putting one foot in front of the other, leaning heavily on Casey.

When he finally fell back on a bed, it didn't matter that it was too short or hard as a rock. To Chuck, it felt like a bed made with the softest feather tick and the coolest sheets. He let out a deep breath, feeling himself relax as a pain-fuelled unconsciousness beckoned him. But he still couldn't help requesting, "Could you send a message to Morgan? And wake me up as soon as Sarah arrives, please . . ."

As he slid into sleep, he thought he heard Casey mumble, "Damn it, Carmichael, stop worryin' about everyone else and shut up so you can heal. Walker will have my head if you die on us."

He weakly tried to stave off sleep to ask Casey what he meant, but it wasn't possible. Soon, he was blissfully unconscious.

For an unknown period of time, Chuck was unaware of anything. His sleep was heavy and deep, and when he awoke the room was a pale pinkish orange. Whether this indicated sunset or sunrise, Chuck did not know.

Shifting slightly, Chuck tried not to gasp and settled for a small, quick intake of breath. The stab of pain in his ribs made him lift his hand to his torso, discovering bandages wound around his body. Moving his hand carefully over himself, he found that Casey must have attended to his wounds somewhat. He could still feel dried blood in his hair, but most of the blood on his skin had been cleaned away.

The light, pale and soft as it was, still was too much for his eyes, so he kept them closed. The swelling around his one eye had gone down somewhat, but he was sure his face was a mess of bruises. His own sister probably wouldn't recognize him-

Chuck tensed as he realized that he had been gone long enough for Mrs. Beckman to follow his instructions regarding his farewell letters. By now, Morgan would hopefully be on the road to their old village, carrying his letter to Eleanor. Meanwhile, his messages to Sir Francis and Sarah would have already been delivered.

Now those letters didn't seem like such a good idea. Eleanor would be so distraught at receiving a report of his death, and who knew when Chuck would be capable of writing to her. He could only hope that Casey would return soon and would be willing to write a letter for him.

He wished that Eleanor could be here now. She had always possessed the knack of making him feel better, whether he was sick, sad or discouraged. And although she would be angry at him for getting hurt like this, he hoped that once he had healed, he would be able to explain himself to her. After all, now that his role in Sir Francis's plan was done, he would probably go back to the village for a while. He wasn't sure if he wanted to stay in London now. And without a job, what other choice did he have?

If he left London, he might be able to start over. Obtain a new position somewhere, as a clerk or tutor for a minor lord. Visit Eleanor on Sundays. Spend time with Morgan. And somehow, find a way to live with his feelings for Sarah until they could fade.

Shifting, Chuck looked around the room for the first time, taking in where he was. The walls were whitewashed, the bed felt softer than before, and the room smelled faintly of lavender. It wasn't the kind of room he'd suspect sheltered John Casey from the rest of the world.

As his eyes moved over the room, Chuck squinted as he looked towards the two windows in the room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and then he had to blink in shock. He must be having a hallucination, borne out of his injuries and the stress of the last few days.

That was the only explanation for seeing a sleeping Sarah in a chair by the windows.

He stared at her, taking in her pale, drawn features, her messy hair and too-red dress. Yet she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

For a moment, he considered just staying still. He didn't want to do anything that would disturb this dream. But lately he had spent too much time dreaming. He needed to wake up.

The bed squeaked softly as he slowly pushed himself upright. Sarah didn't stir, giving more credence to his belief that she was a figment of his imagination. But he wouldn't know for sure until he reached out to touch her and felt nothing.

Hunching over due to the soreness in his ribs, he hobbled towards her. Up close, he could see a tension on her brow that he didn't understand. He let himself look at her for one more moment before he reached out and touched her wrist.

Her skin was warm underneath his fingers. Warm and soft and familiar. He felt a tremor run through his body, shocked that he wasn't imagining her. His eyes snapped up to her face and widened at the sight of her now-open eyes.

Chuck could feel his heart beating harder, his breaths coming faster. He knew he was gaping at her like a freshly caught fish, but he couldn't seem to react any differently. Because he didn't understand why Sarah was here with him at this moment.

When he spoke, he could hear the tremble in his voice. "Sarah?"

End, Chapter 7


	9. Chapter 8

**Ready ****at ****Your ****Hand****, ****Chapter**** 8 (9/10)**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: In the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, a Catholic plot against the queen comes to the attention of spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham. To protect Elizabeth, he develops an unusual plan: hide the passing of intelligence between two agents by a false romance. When Lady Sarah Walker and Chuck Carmichael meet, though, their pretend flirtation becomes much more.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author****'****s ****Note**: Settle in for Chuck and Sarah's reunion. Hope you enjoy it! We're nearly done with this story; next week I will be posting the epilogue. The response to this story has been so great, especially considering it's so different from most fanfics. Thank you so much for giving this story a chance.

XXX

"I do not want a husband who honours me as a queen, if he does not love me as a woman."

Queen Elizabeth I

XXX

Sarah's heart was beating fast as she practically ran through the streets of London, moving towards the Tower. Unfamiliar with this area, she had to backtrack through the narrow streets while looking for John Casey's house. Her attire had prompted whistles and raised eyebrows, but Sarah could care less that at the moment she was dressed like a strumpet. She just wanted to get to Chuck.

Rubbing her fingers against the piece of fabric from his doublet, Sarah paused in front of a small, sturdy-looking house. Was this it? Just as she was ready to dash to the nearest cross-street to double-check the directions that Casey had given her, the front door opened and Casey stepped out, gesturing her inside.

"Casey!" she gasped as she hurried inside. "Is he-is Chuck all right?" She panted, looking up at the guard.

He nodded curtly. "Yeah. Beat all to hell, but it's nothin' that won't heal."

At his words, Sarah closed her eyes in gratitude. The feeling of relief, sweeping away some of her worry, was strong enough to make her knees shake. And to her surprise, she whispered, "Thank God." Because there must be some higher power at work, one that had saved Chuck.

Casey grunted. "Think you should be thankin' us first. You wanna see him? He's asleep, though."

She nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes."

Without another word, Casey turned and led her to a narrow staircase. At the top of the stairs was an attic room that was sunny and peaceful and not at all what she would expect for Casey's lodgings. But it was a perfect sickroom: clean, pleasant-smelling, and featuring a bed that could actually hold most of Chuck's long limbs. Only his feet were hanging over the edge.

Chuck was lying on his back, a sheet pulled up to his waist. From the waist up, he was unclothed, revealing a swath of bandages wrapped around his ribs and several bruises marring his pale skin. His face was further bruised: there was swelling around one eye, his nose was red and somewhat misshapen, and there was dried blood crusted around his nose and lips.

In a daze, Sarah leaned back against the wall, needing some kind of support. Needing something to keep herself from sinking to the floor and drowning in her heartbreak. She felt sick to her stomach when she looked at his injuries. Because this had happened because of her. He had been battered to this point because she hadn't listened to him. Because she had been so wrapped up in some nebulous fantasy of being a spy.

"Got him patched up a bit, but he's gonna need a real doctor sooner or later," Casey said.

His words penetrated her cloak of sadness and shame. She couldn't give in to those emotions. Not now. Chuck needed her.

Sarah pushed herself away from the wall, swallowing down the bile. "I-I sent one of Sir Francis's men to Chuck's lodgings. To see if Morgan is there." At Casey's confused look, she explained, "Chuck's friend, the one that Mendoza had captured."

"Dunno why, but all right," Casey said. "There's a doctor a few streets over. Lemme go fetch him."

"Yes," Sarah said, looking around the room. "Before you go, I need water and clean cloths. I want to wash the blood off him."

Casey nodded and scrounged up a pail of water and a few rags of dubious cleanliness. They would have to do, Sarah told herself. She leaned over Chuck and began washing his face, using delicate motions in order not to jar him from his sleep.

It was a slow process, especially since she had to restrain herself from lightly stroking any intact sections of skin. A foggy memory, of herself as a child approaching her mother with a skinned knee and her mother "kissing it better," swam into her consciousness. Sarah gazed at Chuck, wondering if it was possible to kiss this better. Then, with a shake of her head, she went back to carefully cleaning away the blood.

She was only halfway done by the time Casey returned with the doctor. He ran an appraising eye over Chuck, then dismissed Sarah from the room. "I'll have to undress him completely, miss. Better that you not be present."

It was hard to leave, but she knew Chuck wouldn't want her to see him in that condition. And she felt shy about seeing Chuck more unclothed than he was now. So she nodded and walked down the staircase and into the front room. There was a comfortable-looking sofa and a few chairs pulled around a table, but Sarah couldn't bear sitting down. So she paced slowly, listening carefully for any signs from above that Chuck had woken up.

Suddenly, the door was flung open and a short, bearded man stepped inside, his eyes sweeping wildly over the room. "Chuck? Chuck!"

"Shhh!" Sarah snapped, walking over to the man. "He's upstairs, but you need to be quiet." She paused and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

The man looked at her in confusion, then his face cleared and, to Sarah's surprise, a large smile appeared on his face. "You must be Sarah."

"Yes . . . how do you know who I am?" she asked, her forehead wrinkling.

"Are you kidding me? Chuck's told me all about you!" the man chirped, looking excited. "You're even more beautiful than Chuck said you are. I told Chuck you had to love him-he's a great man and of course you'd see that-even though he said you didn't, but of course you do, because you're here!"

At this outpouring of enthusiasm, Sarah felt rather dizzy. "Um," she said slowly, before shaking her head and trying to formulate some kind of answer. "I take it you're Morgan, then?"

He nodded quickly, holding his hand out to her. "Morgan Grimes. Oh, shoot, do you shake hands with a lady? Or should I bow?"

Sarah felt a small smile on her face. Morgan's positive energy was infectious. She took his hand and gave it a shake. "I'm glad you're here. Chuck will need you."

Morgan's face darkened. "I can't believe he traded himself to get me away from that creepy Spaniard! Well, no, I can believe it, that's Chuck-he's been taking care of me my whole life. But this was too much. I'll never be able to pay him back."

"I don't think Chuck would care very much about that," she said quietly.

"No, you're right-that's what makes him so lovable. Am I right?" He grinned widely at her.

Color rushed into her cheeks at his remarks. She had thought Chuck was full of honesty and sincerity, but Morgan had him beat by a mile. Instead of letting herself get drawn into this conversation, she changed the subject. "Is there anything we can do to make Chuck more comfortable? There's a doctor looking at him now . . ."

"He'd want Eleanor here," Morgan said promptly. "She's a healer, and besides, she loves Chuck a lot."

At the thought of Chuck's sister coming here, of meeting the woman who Chuck regarded so highly, Sarah felt a flutter of nerves. But she was being silly, worrying about something so trivial at a time like this. "Could you write her a letter and ask her to come?"

"I can do even better-I'll go get her myself," Morgan said. "Eleanor still lives in the village we grew up in, and it's only a few hours from London. And Chuck left me money to go home."

"Would you mind greatly?" Sarah asked hesitantly.

Morgan, standing on absolutely no ceremony, patted her shoulder. "I don't mind at all! I can come up with some explanation for Eleanor about why Chuck got hurt. Something dashing. Like rescuing you from an evil lord who wanted to marry you for your fortune!"

Sarah smiled ruefully. "But I have no fortune."

"Minor details that I can work out on the ride," Morgan said, waving aside her objections. "I'll just go see Chuck and then I'll be off." And with that, Morgan scampered up the staircase.

After all that energy, Sarah felt even more tired. She sank down into one of the chairs, her eyes drooping. Then she shook her head and got up to explore. Once Chuck woke up, he would need something to eat and plenty to drink. Hopefully the small kitchen would provide.

XXX

The sun was low in the sky by the time Sarah could sit again. The doctor had agreed with Casey's assessment of Chuck's condition. "Bruises, broken ribs, a sprained ankle-he will heal, but he must be kept warm and still for a day or so, and then keep movement to a minimum for a few weeks," the doctor had said pompously. "Make sure he breathes deeply, to keep the lungs working. Get some local woman to give him herbal remedies for any pain." And with that, he was out the door, some coins from Casey clinking in his pocket.

"Real warm guy," Casey had commented as Sarah had picked up a cloth and resumed cleaning Chuck.

"I think Chuck would prefer having his sister here anyway," Sarah said, glancing at Casey. "She's a healer, too."

Casey grunted. "Yeah, the little man-what's his name, Morgan?-mentioned that." He eyed Sarah. "You're not goin' back to the palace, I reckon?"

Sarah paused, then shook her head, her mind made up. She wasn't going to leave Chuck. Not now. Not until she could talk to him and find out if he still meant what he had written in his letter.

"See, I'm on duty tonight . . . and I don't really care about what's proper, but you shouldn't be left alone with him. 'Cause if he needs the doc again-"

"Morgan should be here with Eleanor a few hours after sunset," Sarah said, straightening up and looking at Casey. "I'll be fine with him. And if you happen to see Catherine, you could ask her to send another dress over to me." She was very eager to get out of the too-tight dress she was wearing, but was resigned to wearing it until tomorrow.

He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her, but then he shrugged. "All right. You need anything, just rummage around and you should find it."

"Yes," Sarah said. Taking a deep breath, she said quietly, "Thank you, Casey. Thank you so much."

With another grunt, one that had a slightly different inflection from his earlier one, Casey left the room.

Turning back to Chuck, she finished cleaning his face. She let her fingers oh-so-lightly touch his cheek, gently stroking his unbruised skin. She wished she could sit up with him and watch over him, make sure he was all right. But when a massive yawn nearly split her head in two, Sarah knew she had to get some sleep.

There was a chair by the side of the bed. Sarah sat down in it, leaning back. And even though it was hard and uncomfortable, her exhaustion was so great that it did not take long for her to drift off to sleep.

She rarely dreamed, or at least, she rarely remembered what she dreamed. But as she slept, Sarah dreamt that she was walking in the gardens at the palace. Sunshine warmed her shoulders, butterflies floated in the air, and the flowers gave off a rich, redolent fragrance. There was such an extreme of colors and textures that she wanted to linger over them, but instead she swept past all the plants. Because she was searching for someone.

Her feet lead her to a secluded grove of trees and she felt a stirring of memory. As she stepped into the copse, she saw a man with his back to her. And in that way you know things in dreams, she knew it was Chuck. But before she could say his name, before he could turn around, Sarah awoke.

There was a set of warm fingers wrapped around her wrist. Sarah blinked and looked at the hand and she knew those fingers, knew that hand. She looked up slowly, feeling breathless at the sight of Chuck, leaning over her, so bruised and battered but alive and breathing and looking at her.

As she stared into his brown orbs, she could see his confusion and disbelief, mixed with a painfully sweet tenderness. His lips parted, and when he spoke he sounded shaken to his very core. "Sarah?"

All she could do was nod, feeling her heart pound. Then she licked her lips and managed to say, "Chuck."

At the sound of his name, he tried to smile, then winced slightly, his free hand touching his jaw. "I thought I was dreaming. Now I know I'm not."

Sarah rose quickly from her chair. "You should be in bed," she said. "Come on . . ." She carefully moved him the few steps back to the bed, helping him ease down onto the mattress.

He followed her dutifully, his eyes not leaving her face. "I can't believe you're here," he said, his words slightly slurred. She guessed he was trying not to reopen the wounds in his lips and cheeks.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say of course she was here. That there was nowhere else she wanted to be. That she wanted to be with him always. But something made the words catch in the back of her throat, made her speech stop and start.

"Oh-I, well . . ." She flushed, feeling awkward and nervous in a way she had never felt before.

Without realizing it, her hand was resting over his. Chuck turned his hand and wrapped his taped fingers around hers, giving her a gentle squeeze. She sank down on the edge of the bed, gazing at him. And unable to resist, she squeezed his hand back just as gently, her thumb brushing just once over the sliver of skin between the bandages.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, looking for some kind of steady ground upon which she could collect her thoughts.

"Better," he said, gazing up at her. "Was there some kind of doctor here?"

"Yes," Sarah replied, nodding her head. "He said you're going to be all right, but you'll have to stay still until tomorrow, and then move only a little for a while. Until your ribs heal."

Chuck frowned a little, then searched her face. "Is there-has anyone checked to see if Morgan is all right?"

"He's more than all right," Sarah said, unable to help a smile from appearing on her face. He truly did put others before himself. He made no claims for sympathy or coddling due to his injuries and nearly immediately asked about his friend. "He came here earlier. You must have been too dazed to realize it."

His eyes lit up, a glow of happiness at odds with his bruised face. "Oh, thank goodness," he said. "I was so worried that Mendoza hadn't released him, despite his promises." At the name of the Spanish ambassador, a brief cloud appeared in his eyes, but then vanished. "Where's Morgan now?"

It took so much focus to not stroke Chuck's hand or his hair. Sarah made herself keep still. She wouldn't let her body start something that her mouth was too scared to finish. Not when there was so much they had to talk, not when she couldn't find a way to explain how she felt.

Sarah gave him a small smile. "He should be back soon, with your sister."

If Chuck had looked happy before, it was nothing compared to this moment. His happiness mellowed into a deep contentment, tinged with love and affection. "Eleanor's going to be pretty upset when she sees me," he said, his voice sounding sleepy.

"Morgan said he was going to come up with a story to explain your injuries, so you can just go along with that," Sarah said, giving in to her urge and fussing a little with the covers, pulling them a bit higher before standing up. "You should get some more rest before they arrive, though."

He nodded, his eyes drooping a little. "What about you?" His voice was soft. "You look as tired as I feel."

"Don't worry about me," she said. "I'll be fine."

For a moment, he set his jaw and looked like he was going to be stubborn. But he had spoken truly about his level of exhaustion, for his face slackened and he looked annoyed with himself. "You'll sleep, though?"

She nodded and made her voice sound brisk. "Yes. Right in this chair," she said, gesturing towards her earlier seat.

"Too bad we can't share the bed . . ." he said sleepily, his eyes closing and his words trailing off as he fell back asleep.

His innocent suggestion made her cheeks flame. She knew he was only thinking of her welfare, but the thought of stretching out beside him on that soft mattress . . . it was tempting. Even with his injuries and all the miscommunication between them, she very nearly ignored all common sense to lie down next to him. But with a shake of her head, Sarah sat back down in the hard wooden chair.

This time, sleep took its time coming. She kept pondering what had happened, why she hadn't been able to tell Chuck about reading his letter, about the feelings she possessed and the decisions she had made. Perhaps it just wasn't the right time. With how severe Chuck's injuries were, it might be some time before he would be physically and emotionally ready for any kind of serious, in-depth conversation . . . or was that just an excuse? Something that let her put off telling him what she had done in order to rescue him.

Sarah shifted and curled up in the chair. She would need to be patient, yes, but there was a difference between patience and timidity. As Chuck healed, there would be chances for them to speak, time to discover if his feelings were unchanged and to reveal her own feelings. And after coming so close to losing him, to losing all the possibilities that he represented, Sarah knew she couldn't let fear stand in her way.

XXX

After nearly a day of sleeping, with short periods of wakefulness, Chuck was pleased to wake the next morning and feel less aches and pains. Whatever was in the foul-tasting concoction that Eleanor had shoved in his mouth last night, it had obviously improved his condition.

Upon her arrival just before curfew the previous night, Eleanor had teared up. "Oh, Chuck!" She had stroked his hair, gazing into his eyes. "Once you're better, I'm going to yell at you so much. But for now, you're off the hook."

"Suddenly, being a permanent invalid sounds good," Chuck managed to joke, until Eleanor glared at him. "Or not," he said, smiling at her.

Shaking her head, Eleanor rolled up her sleeves. "For that, now I'll heal you even faster." She looked around. "Are there any towels?"

"Just a minute," Sarah said, moving past Morgan, who was still standing in the doorway.

Eleanor raised her eyebrows and looked at Chuck. "Is that the famous Sarah, the one that I've heard so little about, except from Morgan over the last few hours?"

Chuck flushed. "Ellie . . ." he said, pulling out his childhood nickname for her.

His sister rolled her eyes. "You can tell me all about her later." Before he could say anything, Sarah returned, carrying a stack of rough towels and standing at the ready to assist Eleanor.

It kept surprising him to wake up and see Sarah still there. At some point, she had changed her dress, replacing the tight red frock he'd never seen her wear before with a simple, dark-blue linen dress. And she was never far away, it seemed; even when Eleanor sat with him, he could hear Sarah's voice among the ones coming from elsewhere in the house.

In fact, he could hear her now. Turning his head, he saw Eleanor and Sarah sitting in the corner of the room, Sarah doing some sewing while Eleanor mixed herbs. While they worked on their tasks, they spoke softly in one of those conversations women seemed to fall into without any effort.

Seeing his sister smile and talk with Sarah was an unexpected pleasure for Chuck. He hadn't meant to keep details about Sarah from Eleanor, but telling his sister about his unrequited love would lead to much lecturing and advice-giving. And while Chuck loved his sister, there was only so much he could take. Eleanor could be just as enthusiastic as Morgan in promoting Chuck, and he was sure his sister was attempting to both praise him to the skies while extracting information from Sarah.

That Sarah was letting herself be drawn into conversation with Eleanor was even more unexpected. As he watched her, Chuck couldn't help feeling like something had changed in her. Being willing to engage in conversation with a complete stranger like Eleanor was . . . it didn't make sense to him.

He shifted, the bed creaking slightly underneath him and drawing the attention of both women. "Good morning, sleepyhead," Eleanor said, putting aside her mortar and pestle and walking over to him. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better," he told her truthfully. "And more awake."

"Good," she said, smiling at him. "Although you'll probably be sleeping a lot today, after we move you back to your lodgings."

Rather than keep imposing on Casey's hospitality, they had planned to transport Chuck back to Mrs. Beckman's house today. As soon as Eleanor's husband arrived this morning, Chuck would be bundled into a cart and carefully taken back to Cheapside.

"Is Devon here?" he asked, running a hand through his hair and grimacing a little at the feel of the dried blood and unwashed greasiness.

"Should be arriving any moment. Morgan was meeting him at the city gate and they were going to get a cart."

Chuck nodded, his eyes glancing over at Sarah. She was sewing something black, her gaze locked on the fabric. Then, as if she sensed the weight of his eyes, she looked up at him. Her eyes were as soft and blue and limitless as the summer sky and Chuck felt his heart rise up into his throat. Then she looked away, going back to work.

The sound of loud footsteps coming up the staircase made Chuck tense, but it was only Morgan, followed by Devon. "Chuck!" his brother-in-law boomed. "You really should have taken me up on my offer to teach you to box."

"I don't know that it would have helped, Devon, but I might change my mind now," Chuck said ruefully. In deference to his injuries, Devon settled for a hearty handshake instead of his usual bone-crushing hug.

Eleanor kissed her husband's cheek, then took charge. "Let's get Chuck ready to go. He needs to have his bandages changed before he gets dressed, then Devon and Casey will help you into the cart, Chuck. Morgan will leave a few minutes before us, so he can prepare everything at your room. And I need to get some extra herbs, more bandages . . ."

"I can do that," Sarah said as she neatly bit the piece of thread and shook out what she was sewing. "Just give me a list."

"Thank you, Sarah," Eleanor said, her voice grateful. "Is Chuck's doublet ready?"

He did a double-take. That was what Sarah had been sewing? How had she gotten it-and why was she and not Eleanor mending it?

Sarah nodded. "All done." She stood up and handed the doublet to Eleanor, then looked at Chuck for a moment. "I-I'll wait downstairs for your list, Eleanor."

"All right," Eleanor said, sounding a bit distracted as she helped Devon pull Chuck up into a sitting position. Chuck also didn't really notice what was happening to him as his sister and brother-in-law helped to dress him. Why was Sarah here? Shouldn't she be helping Sir Francis with cleaning up after the plotters? Probably getting praised by the Queen for foiling the plot?

The questions swirled in his mind the whole trip back to Cheapside. It gave him something to focus on other than his memories of his trip from Southwark with Casey and how his body throbbed with pain with each jolt of the cart.

With a total of five people in the room, Chuck and Morgan's lodgings quickly grew cramped. Sarah, her voice reluctant, said she was going back to the palace but would return the next morning. Chuck watched her go, unable to look away from her, then sighed softly. Eleanor and Devon, using some kind of mind-reading ability that married couples seemed to have, chose to depart not long thereafter. They had a room in the local inn and would stay until the next day.

"I wish we could stay longer than that, but we'll need to get back to the village," Eleanor said apologetically.

Chuck smiled at his sister. "It's okay, Eleanor."

She smiled back at him and kissed his forehead. "You can have some soup if you get hungry, and a little wine. But no beer and no bread."

With his body aching, Chuck didn't feel equipped to make a fuss. So he just nodded and watched them go before looking at Morgan.

His best friend looked worried. "Are you okay, Chuck? You know if you need Eleanor, I can run and get her-"

"No, no, I'm okay," Chuck said, shifting a little to get comfortable. "What about you?"

"Me?" Morgan asked. "Don't worry about me. All they did was yell at me a lot and try to scare me. And it worked. It wasn't pretty, Chuck."

At Morgan's words, Chuck felt a strange sense of relief. Yes, Morgan hadn't seemed to suffer physically from his experience. And while the threats of violence could be incredibly disturbing, his friend did not seem deeply affected by his experience. Knowing that he had saved Morgan from any greater harm made worthwhile the pain that Chuck had endured.

"I'm so glad you're all right, Morgan," Chuck said, reaching out to pat Morgan's shoulder.

"Me, too, Chuck," Morgan said soberly. "I was really worried about you."

"I'll be fine in a few weeks, and then I can go back home," Chuck said.

Morgan's eyes bugged out. "Home? You mean-back to the village?"

He looked at Morgan curiously. "Yes, back to the village."

"You can't do that, Chuck!"

"I don't have a position anymore, Morgan. I have nothing to live on now." Chuck shifted the pillow under his head, moving to stretch out on the bed.

Morgan reached out and fluffed the pillow, succeeding only in moving a hard lump back underneath the sore spot on Chuck's head. "That's true, but you could get a new one, easy. And what about Sarah?"

Chuck let out a sigh. What about Sarah, indeed. All his thinking had thrown no light on the situation, nothing that could explain her new behavior.

"I mean, she's even prettier than you described her, Chuck, and she's really nice, once she stopped being kinda scary because she was worrying about you so much. Last night she and I talked about you and she asked me about the village and wow, Chuck, does she love you."

Hearing Morgan say that definitely made Chuck feel a swelling of hope. But just as quickly, he tamped it down. "She's just . . . concerned, Morgan. That doesn't mean she loves me."

The bearded man's jaw jutted out. "Doesn't mean she doesn't. When you're not looking, she can't take her eyes off you. This is the first time she's left your side in the last day and a half. What does that mean, other than she loves you?"

"It could mean a lot of things, Morgan," Chuck said wearily, pulling the covers up. "I'm tired."

Because Morgan was his best friend, he had long ago learned when to poke Chuck into action and when to leave him alone. He must have decided to drop the subject, because Morgan just nodded and patted Chuck's shoulder before he pulled out a penny pamphlet and started reading.

Closing his eyes, Chuck felt sleep waiting for him. But he couldn't help a final thought about Sarah. Could Morgan be right?

XXX

Eleanor had cautioned that his recovery would be slow, with good days and bad. The next morning when he awoke, Chuck was happy to discover that today would be a good day. With the exception of his ribs, he felt less sore, and the poultices and herbs that Eleanor had been plying him with had reduced the color of his bruises and the size of his cuts.

Morgan helped him wash up and dress, and he was sitting up on his bed when Eleanor and Devon arrived with breakfast. And even though he was forced to eat porridge, a food he greatly disliked, Chuck found that food tasted good.

The conversations flowed easily and Chuck couldn't help smiling as he watched his sister, his brother-in-law, and his best friend debate the advantages of London versus the village. The discussion had gotten so intense that no one noticed the first knock on the door. When the door opened, they all stopped in mid-word and turned to see who it was.

When Sarah entered the room, Chuck felt his jaw drop. She was wearing her elegant silvery-blue dress, the one that made her eyes very blue. She looked indescribably beautiful, standing out among the shabby furniture and drab garments everyone else was wearing. As she looked around, Chuck could see an unusual nervousness in her. Almost as if she realized she was overdressed and felt particularly awkward about it.

She took a deep breath, then looked at Chuck. "I-I have a visitor for you. Someone who would like to speak to you in private."

He couldn't think of anyone other than Sir Francis who would want a private audience with him. Chuck tilted his head, then looked at his family. "Would you mind letting me have a few minutes?"

Eleanor looked surprised, but she nodded. "Of course." She rose and bustled around, gathering their breakfast dishes. "We'll all be down in the kitchen, then," she said, clearly having made herself at home. The thought of his sister joining forces with Mrs. Beckman was an intimidating one-or at least, it would be if Chuck wasn't facing the prospect of a one-on-one conversation with Sir Francis Walsingham.

Sarah looked at him, her hands tightly clasped in front of her. "How are you feeling today?" she asked, her voice soft.

"I'm better," he said, unable to take his eyes off her. Seeing her in his room starkly illustrated the differences between their two worlds. He was the poor son of a scientist and soldier, while Sarah had status and the ear of the Queen of England. It should have made his hopes sink like a stone. But the very fact that she was here made him think about what Morgan had said, about Sarah maybe being in love with him.

Her face brightened for a moment, giving him a small, slightly shy smile. "I'm glad to hear that."

A knock on the door cut off any reply Chuck might have made. "Come in," he said, craning his neck to see, as expected, Sir Francis walk into the room.

The spymaster looked old and tired, Chuck thought. He moved slowly, his shoulders hunched, and Sarah quickly helped him into a chair by Chuck's bed.

"Thank you, Lady Sarah," he said heavily. He took a moment to catch his breath, then nodded to her. "I'm fine now. You may withdraw."

It might have been his imagination, but Chuck sensed a slight frostiness between Sarah and Sir Francis. He wondered what might have caused such distance between them as Sarah hesitated for a split second before nodding and stepping out of the room.

Sir Francis, now recovered, turned his penetrating gaze on Chuck. He did his best not to squirm. "Sir Francis, it's good of you to visit."

"It was the least I could do," the older man stated. "Due to these unfortunate events, I felt a sense of responsibility for what happened to you."

"That's not necessary, sir," Chuck rushed to say. "It was my decision to save my friend. For you and the other intelligencers, your first duty was to the Queen, of course."

"My first duty is to Queen Elizabeth, yes," Sir Francis said. "Yet that does not mean I should ignore the people who get swept up in these plots, the innocent ones. This was a reminder to me of that fact."

It was kind of Sir Francis to apologize like this. Chuck didn't need an apology, but it was good to hear that apparently he held no malice towards Chuck for his actions. Wishing to move on, Chuck nodded and asked, "So the plot is over?"

"Yes, with Count Mendoza's role being revealed, the other traitors quickly ran for cover but failed to find any," Sir Francis said, his voice full of a muted satisfaction. "As for Mendoza himself, he's been expelled from the country and is returning to Spain. You need not fear anything from him, for you or your friend."

Chuck let out a sigh of relief. "That-that is good to hear. Thank you, Sir Francis."

"Your assistance has been most valuable, Mr. Carmichael. Although we were not able to prove anything conclusively against the Countess of Lincoln, other than confirming the long-held suspicion that she is secretly a Catholic, your reports provided good information to me. I have spoken with the Earl and he is aware of his wife's . . . sentiments," Sir Francis said, choosing his words carefully.

"What will happen to her?" Chuck asked, feeling a stab of sympathy for the countess.

"The earl has suffered poor health for the last few years. He and his wife will withdraw to one of their estates for the foreseeable future. Away from London and under the eye of her husband, the countess will not cause any trouble."

So the countess was not punished in a traditional sense, but would have to live under a cloud of suspicion until she could regain some favor. Chuck supposed those with knowledge of the situation would think she had gotten off lightly, but he disagreed. Having to live in doubt, being watched and suspected . . . he would not like such a life. That was what made it easier for him to look at Sir Francis and say, "I wish to discuss my future role in working for you, sir. Rather, my lack of desire to do so."

The spymaster quirked an eyebrow, but merely said, "Go on, Mr. Carmichael."

He paused, just to make sure his thoughts were in order, then spoke. "I am flattered by your regard for my help, and I am glad that the Queen is safe. But-but this isn't the kind of life I want. I want something simple, where I can work hard and live like other people do."

"Such a goal is not incompatible with a career as a spy," Sir Francis said, eyeing Chuck. "You could continue working in a lord's household, rising to become a private secretary. You would be well-compensated and taken care of by your employer. And all you would need to do is keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut."

Chuck couldn't help a rueful smile. "Not talking is a difficult task for me, sir. I'm still shocked that I got through this without saying anything damaging."

"You undervalue yourself, Mr. Carmichael."

"Perhaps I do," Chuck said, looking directly at Sir Francis. "But for now, I respectfully ask for my freedom. You have nothing to fear from me-I will not reveal anything about what has happened over these last weeks."

"I will admit that I had high hopes for you, after Sir Bryce's compliments and seeing your performance. But if your heart is not in this, it won't work." Sir Francis paused. "I suspect your heart is actually otherwise engaged."

He could feel the tips of his ears turning red. Chuck cleared his throat. "I . . . it is, sir," he said, impulsively choosing to trust Sir Francis with the truth.

"It would appear that her heart is also affecting Lady Sarah."

"W-what?" Chuck said, gaping slightly at Sir Francis. Was that some kind of hint? Or was Sir Francis accusing him of acting improperly towards Sarah? "Sir Francis, I can't speak for Sarah, but I assure you that we have always acted within the boundaries of the assignment we were given-"

Sir Francis held his hand up, stopping Chuck in mid-babble. "I am not accusing you of anything, Mr. Carmichael. Please, calm yourself. Such anxiety is not good for your recovery. How soon will you be healed?"

"Um," Chuck said, still flailing slightly. "It's good-that is, within a week or two I should be able to resume some activities, according to the doctor and my sister."

"Very good," Sir Francis said, rising from his chair. He held his hand out to Chuck. "If you ever change your mind, Mr. Carmichael, the Queen always has use for men like you. All it would take is a message to myself or Lord Burleigh."

Chuck shook his hand. "Thank you, Sir Francis." He was flattered by Sir Francis's words, but also doubtful of just how much he meant them. If you thought your subject was not going to change his mind, urging him to reconsider was simply politeness. That realization told Chuck that for now, this wasn't the kind of life he wanted for himself. Besides, he was not truly that special or remarkable.

But it was certainly pleasant to be well-regarded, Chuck conceded. He smiled at Sir Francis. "Thank you again for your time, Sir Francis."

"And thank you, Mr. Carmichael." Sir Francis looked at him for a long moment, then nodded and left the room.

Leaning back, Chuck let out a breath. It was done. He was no longer a spy, even in name only. And while it was a relief to be free from the confusion, the fear and the insecurity, he couldn't help wondering if his decision reflected poorly on him. Did it seem that he lacked ambition? Was withdrawing from Sir Francis's intelligencer network make him look weak?

If his lip wasn't still painfully cut, he would be biting on it as he tried to work this out. Why did this matter to him? The time he had spent working with Sarah had convinced him that he wasn't fit for this sort of life, one of lies and adventure, so why was he worried about what the decision meant? It wasn't that he was second-guessing turning down Sir Francis's offer, but . . . but he wondered if perhaps the life he thought he wanted was the right choice for him.

XXX

Lying in wait for someone would be much easier if the staircase in Chuck's lodging house had a larger landing, Sarah thought.

And although she was very tempted to determine just what Sir Francis was saying to Chuck, she needed the time to plan for her own conversation. It would be difficult, telling Sir Francis about her change of heart, but he would expect an explanation for her decision.

After all, with how she burned her bridges while trying to save Chuck, it was unlikely that Sir Francis would ever wish to rely upon her again. She had thought that her mentor was above the small-minded belief that women were incapable of logic and reason, yet he still must have been given pause by her emotional reactions over the last few days. That is, if his mind hadn't already been decided before this.

Sarah had been surprised, too. But she knew now that she wouldn't have changed what she had done. Not when it resulted in Chuck, alive and breathing and still smiling. His body might be bruised and his soul somewhat bowed, but Chuck wasn't broken. He was here and she could have a chance with him. A future.

The creak of the door opening alerted her to the presence of Sir Francis. He closed the door behind him but pulled up short when he saw her. "Lady Sarah."

"Sir Francis," she said, giving him a quick curtsy. "Might I have a word with you? Mrs. Beckman has offered the use of her sitting room."

"Of course, Lady Sarah." His tone was even, although she thought she heard a touch of silent disapproval in his voice. He slowly began making his way down the stairs. She could see how labored his movements were, and as much as she wanted to step forward and help him, he would not accept her offer of assistance. So Sarah allowed Sir Francis to set a slow pace, following him down the stairs.

Once they were settled in Mrs. Beckman's ground-floor sitting room and Sir Francis had caught his breath, the nerves she had been trying to control became like a wildfire, sweeping through her body. She shifted on the chair, wishing her mind hadn't gone blank.

"Mr. Carmichael told me something unusual," Sir Francis said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

"Oh?" Sarah asked, a bit weakly.

"He said he has no desire to further participate in intelligence work. That he wishes to have a simple life."

And just like that, she had an opening with which to begin talking to Sir Francis. So while in the back of her mind, she parsed his statement, Sarah focused on telling Sir Francis her own news.

"That is . . . not unexpected," Sarah said slowly. "Mr. Carmichael had told me that he had little interest in being an intelligencer." She looked at Sir Francis, then took a deep breath. "And I find that-that I, as well, have begun to doubt if this-if being a spy-was what I wanted."

If she thought he would react with surprise at her former desire to be a spy, she was wrong. Sir Francis merely nodded. "I sensed that your future plans included finding a way to serve as an intelligencer."

"Yes," she said, her voice quiet. "I-I have always wanted to repay you for the kindness you showed me when you took me into your care, and with the lessons you provided me as I was growing up, I thought that you wanted me to become a spy. And I thought that was what I wanted."

"What made you interested in such work?" Sir Francis asked, his voice curious.

Sarah ran her hands over her skirts, taking comfort in the way the silk was still slippery under her slightly-sweaty palms. "It . . . it was a way to distinguish myself. To use the skills and talents I have been given, in the way they were meant to be used. I wanted more than marriage and motherhood, more than being like other women."

Sir Francis stood and paced for a moment, his hands behind his back. "You truly wanted more?"

"Yes," she said simply, looking up at him from her seat. "And I believed that you thought I was capable of more, with the lessons I received after being taken into your household."

"I can see how that impression was the foundation for your dreams," Sir Francis said. He paused in his pacing and faced her. "I am very sorry that the foundation was not capable of supporting such dreams, though. I only had you taught spycraft in order to learn the best ways of instructing others."

His words were direct and honest; she could see that he meant them. And oh, how they cut her to the quick. To realize how mistaken she had been. Perhaps it was her own fault, for assuming she knew what Sir Francis intended and desired. This might all have been prevented if she had spoken with him about her beliefs, about her dreams.

"Why?"

"Why what, Sarah?" he asked gently, walking over and sitting next to her.

She hadn't realized she had asked the question aloud, but looking at Sir Francis, she found she wanted the answer. "Why couldn't I be an intelligencer?"

With a tenderness she didn't expect, Sir Francis reached out and covered her hand with his. "You are very skilled, Sarah. You took to the instruction so readily, and the work you have performed for me over these last weeks has been well done. You could do this . . . if you were a man."

Closing her eyes, Sarah sought to control her emotions. It was so simple and basic, yet so unfair. Because she was a woman, she was denied from having something more. Something that a man with the same skills could achieve. She knew that most women had no conception that they could be the equal of men, but Sarah from her earliest memories had thought that. It made her different. It marked her and isolated her from the experiences other women had. Experiences that she wished she might have had now, of friendship and gossip and shared knowledge. Things that could have helped her recently.

But she couldn't change her past. And in her heart of hearts, she wasn't sure if she would want to trade away what she had already experienced. All she could was move forward and put together the pieces of her life into a new future.

One that would hopefully have Chuck in it.

"I could never, in good conscience, let you be a spy, Sarah. I'm very grieved, but I could not let that happen. And I'm most grieved that I did not know how you felt."

Her mentor's voice was quiet and resigned, yet also matter-of-fact. If she had wanted to persuade him to change his mind, his voice would have slammed the door on such an attempt.

"It . . . it's all right," she said slowly, tripping slightly over her words. "It's better this way. Realizing that I want something different, rather than being told 'no'."

He nodded. "Yes, that is truly providential." Sir Francis paused and looked at her. "Forgive me for meddling, but . . . does Mr. Carmichael have anything to do with your decision?"

Sarah jerked her head up and looked at him, feeling frozen under his gaze. Having it put so plainly made her feel like she was on the edge of a cliff. She was standing on the edge and nothing was holding her back from falling off that cliff. Nothing except her own clumsy, scared tongue.

Somehow, she nodded once, unable to say anything. Then she stood up. She was ready to tell Chuck. Ready to jump and hope that he might catch her.

Sir Francis rose. "If there's not anything else you wish to say to me, Lady Sarah, then I should return to the palace. There is still much work to do."

She nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course, Sir Francis."

To her surprise, he took her hand and held it for a moment while gazing at her. "I believe you still have a very bright future ahead of you, Lady Sarah. Especially since you have the strength to fulfill your promise."

His words touched her, made her feel a small spark of confidence. "Thank you," she said softly.

"You're most welcome, Lady Sarah. Good day," he said with a nod, before withdrawing and leaving the house.

When the door closed behind him, it seemed that a silence fell over the house. All the sounds, of Eleanor and Devon and Morgan in the kitchen with Mrs. Beckman, the creaks of the house full of people, even her own panting breaths ringing in her ears, went away. And all she could think of was going to Chuck and telling him all that was in her heart.

Her hands were fidgeting. Sarah forced them apart and held them at her sides, lifting up her skirts a little. And then she slowly began climbing the stairs to Chuck's room.

XXX

Ever since Casey had removed him from Count Mendoza's house, Chuck hadn't really been alone. So it was a welcome opportunity to have his room to himself, to have peace and quiet as he deliberated on his conversation with Sir Francis.

It was eye-opening to realize how much confidence the spymaster had in him. After all, Sir Francis knew a wide variety of men who had risen from low birth to positions of prominence. He had helped make that happen for several of them. If he had such a high opinion of Chuck, perhaps his future wasn't so hopeless as it might seem. He still had some decisions to make as he recovered from his injuries-to find a new nobleman to work for or choose something else, to stay in London or return to his home village-but for the first time in quite some time, he felt a shred of hope. If he just had some belief in himself, he could achieve more than he had dreamed.

And when it came to his dreams . . . it seemed like it was time to consider Sarah.

He couldn't deny that he was curious about Sarah's presence. Why was she here, helping him so much? What would she do once she knew he wasn't going to continue working for Sir Francis? And most of all, was there any chance for the two of them?

Perhaps it was all false hopes, but before he could move on, he needed some time to talk to her. It was so long since they had been able to discuss themselves; the mission had always come first. Now that the mission was over and he was on the verge of a new life, he wanted to know how she felt. She might think he was weak for not wanting the life of an intelligencer. She might think he was unworthy of her attention now. But he needed to hear it from her.

Ironically, now he wished that someone was here. Someone he could send to find Sarah, to ask her to come and speak with him.

An unexpected soft knock made him tense. "Come in," he said cautiously.

The door opened slowly to reveal Sarah, clutching the door knob. Chuck felt his heart leap at the sight of her. It was almost like his desire for her had made her appear. "Sarah," he said quietly, trying to sound controlled and even-tempered.

"Hello, Chuck," she said, a small, uncertain smile on her face. "May I come in?"

"Yes, please," he said, gesturing to the chair by his bed that Sir Francis had used.

As she sat down, arranging her skirts, he gazed at her. Even with the dark circles under her eyes and the tension in her body, she was beautiful. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And beyond her physical beauty, Chuck admired even more her personality and her soul. Her intelligence and sense of humor and determination and morals. He didn't love her for her appearance-he loved what was inside the shell of her body.

And because he loved her, he wanted to be honest with her. So once she was settled, he spoke. "I told Sir Francis that I don't want to be a spy. Not anymore."

"Yes . . . I know," she said softly, looking at him. There was something in her eyes, he thought, something that made his stomach tighten a little. "Sir Francis told me. I-I understand why."

"You do?" he asked in surprise.

Sarah pursed her lips, then nodded. "I do. At least, I believe so. You don't think you're capable of lying, of having to hurt people even if it's for their benefit in the end."

Swallowing, Chuck nodded a little. "That . . . that's right." It was surprising that she so precisely isolated his reason for ending his association with Sir Francis, putting into words the feeling he had only alluded to with the spymaster. Or was it that surprising? Could it be that as he had tried to learn about Sarah, she had been learning him?

That thought made him feel warm inside. Made him gird himself to ask her about her feelings, about if she might-

"Chuck?"

Her voice interrupted his thoughts and made him focus on the matter at hand. "Yes, Sarah?"

She twisted her fingers together for a moment, then straightened up and folded her hands in her lap. At that moment, she looked every inch the well-bred young woman. But her words weren't. "Remember when we first met, and I told you what I hoped would happen? That I would become an intelligencer?"

He nodded, his eyes locked on her face. "Yes, I remember."

It was plain to see that she was struggling with something. Some strong emotion had her in its grip, an emotion she was seemingly trying to control. He wasn't sure what was going through her mind, but he wanted to let her have all the time she needed.

"I-I have recently discovered that I no longer wish to be a spy," Sarah said haltingly. She hesitantly lifted her eyes to his, gazing at him.

"What?" Chuck said in surprise, leaning towards her. "But you are so skilled at it-you could do so much."

"Yes, perhaps," Sarah said. "That is, I mean, yes, I could be a good spy, but being a spy means more than I realized."

"What do you mean?" Chuck asked, feeling concerned by her reticence. It wasn't like Sarah to be this cautious, this halting. It confirmed that she was having difficulty putting her thoughts into words.

She stood up and walked around the room-another unusual reaction from her. "I just-I learned that work as an intelligencer means performing tasks that you'd rather not do. Having that which makes you into the person you are, your essence or soul, be stripped away until you're nothing more than a soulless individual. At least, I think that is what would happen to me." She stopped speaking, looking lost in thought, before turning to face him. "That's not what I want. But that means that I no longer know what will happen to me, and it's-" Her voice broke and she looked down.

Chuck felt a stew of emotions inside himself. He almost wanted to pinch himself, because Sarah opening herself up to him like this seemed more like a dream than reality. But more than that, he felt his heart go out to her. He wished he could touch her: hold her hand and offer her his support. Because he could understand how it felt, to suddenly realize the life you had always planned for was no longer what you wanted. How upsetting and overwhelming that would feel.

"You must feel very unsettled, Sarah," he said quietly. "But if you've learned that being a spy is not for you, it doesn't matter how long you thought it was what you wanted. It's better to stop now, before you can't go back. And-and you're so talented and intelligent and-you're sure to find something like being a spy that's not being a spy."

"You truly think so?" Sarah crossed the room and bypassed the chair, sitting on the edge of the bed. She was so close that Chuck felt his mind fog up for a moment, then he nodded.

"Yes, I do," he said, gazing into her face. "I really do, Sarah. You can do anything. If you don't want to be a spy, you can still be a woman who helps people, you can still keep the Queen safe and protect England in other ways and do anything . . ." He felt embarrassed by his babbling and let his voice trail off.

Sarah's eyes were luminous as she looked at him. In a voice that was part-whisper, part-sigh, she said, "There's also you."

"I beg your pardon?" Chuck asked, then wondered why on Earth he had said that. But he couldn't be hearing her correctly. He must have misunderstood her body language and the words she had spoken.

The words came out of her in a rush. "Ever since our fight, when you found out that Morgan had been taken-no, even before that. You were right, Chuck. I did have feelings for you-I mean, I do. But when we fought and you accused me of having emotions that I could shut down, I realized that I had tried to do that when I was with you, but I couldn't. You, you make me feel so much and so strongly that I can't help but want to be near to you. So when I found out that you had traded yourself for Morgan, I-I had to do something."

Chuck stared at Sarah, feeling his heart beat faster. She was unburdening herself to him, saying things he'd never imagined she would say. But she seemed so sad and upset and worried, her eyes moving around the room, pausing on his face for a moment before flicking away. Without thinking about it, he reached out and took her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers.

She gripped his hand tightly, squeezing the still-healing bones. But Chuck ignored the pain as Sarah began speaking again. "I knew I didn't want anything to happen to you. And then I came here and-Chuck, I read the letter you wrote to me."

A rush of color flooded his face. Every word in that letter was burned into his memory and he felt flustered that she knew the depth of his feelings. But then, his logical mind asserted itself. She had known his feelings for days . . . and she was still here. And she didn't appear angry or unaffected by his love for her. Did that mean-

He could only stare at her as Sarah kept speaking. "No one has ever cared about me like you do, Chuck, and when I read your letter, everything I had been thinking about-saving you and keeping you safe-it wasn't enough." She paused, her shoulders heaving a little, then blurted out, "Not if I couldn't have the opportunity to tell you-a chance for me to-."

"A chance?" he said, feeling like his brain was caught in tar. "A chance to do what?"

Sarah moved even closer to him, letting go of his hand. In contrast to her darting eyes and heaving breaths just a moment before, her face was now calm, almost peaceful. She gazed into his eyes and Chuck gazed back, feeling a sense of anticipation swell up inside him.

When she spoke, her voice was soft and sweet and so full of love that he thought he might burst. "A chance to tell you . . . yes. Yes, I love you, too."

"You-you do?" he asked dumbly. As if they had a mind of their own, his hands reached out for her, landing lightly at her waist. He drew her towards him, seeing how her chin tilted up, bringing her lips oh-so-close to his. Close enough that he could feel her breath washing over his face. Close enough that he could feel her body tremble.

"Yes, Chuck," she whispered. "Yes."

And then, his mind finally grasped just what was going on. Sarah loved him. This beautiful, intelligent, unique woman loved him. His body couldn't be capable of holding all this happiness. Chuck felt joy and love and hope and Sarah seemed to feel the same way, based on her wide, beaming smile and the bright, sparkling eyes that were locked on his.

The only thing he could think to do was kiss her. So Chuck bridged the distance between them and brought his lips against hers.

His eyes fell shut as Sarah kissed him. Not because they were pretending to be lovers or because someone was watching them, but because she wanted to kiss him. And it was even better than he had ever imagined it might be, to have Sarah's warm body pressed against his, her arms around his neck and her fingers playing with his unfortunate curls. To have her mouth pressed against his, each of them exploring the different tastes and textures.

It was perhaps the best moment of his life. So of course, as his mind started putting all the pieces into place, he broke the kiss and pulled back to look at Sarah.

Her lips were slightly puffy and her cheeks were pink where his beard must have rubbed against her skin. Her eyes were starry and soft, like she was just waking up from a lovely dream. But he couldn't let that sway him from making sure she knew that she didn't need to give up her dreams.

"Are you choosing to give up your hopes of being a spy for me? Do you think that's the only way I would wish to have you?" Chuck asked, searching her face. He hated having to ask, because he didn't want to think Sarah had gotten the impression that the only way they could be together was if she didn't work for Sir Francis.

But Sarah simply smiled and shook her head. "No, Chuck." Her fingers kept stroking his hair and it was all he could do not to close his eyes and purr like a kitten. "I don't wish to be a spy because it would ask more of me than I'm willing to give. Not when I know you, not when I know now just what I would be missing out on. Friendship and happiness and love . . . you've made me see that those things matter to me."

"You're absolutely positive?" he asked, not really sure why he was pressing this question on her. Perhaps he just wanted to know that there was no chance that she would change her mind and leave him behind some day, all alone when he picked up the pieces of his broken heart.

"I'm positive, Chuck," she said, laughing softly. "Let me prove it to you." She pulled his head down and kissed him slowly, drawing him into a beautiful world of happiness and hope, a world where heartbreak had no place.

He didn't know how long they spent kissing and touching, but it was enough for him to feel fully satisfied with Sarah's decision. Eventually, they ended up stretched out on his bed, his arms holding her close and her head resting lightly on his shoulder.

"I'm not too heavy?" she asked softly, her fingers playing with the buttons of his doublet.

"You're perfect," he said lightly, letting his hand stroke her hair.

"I'm far from perfect," she said, looking up at him. She had a small smile on her face, but her voice was serious.

"You are to me," he said. "And not to belabor the point, but . . . but if you truly wanted to keep working for Sir Francis, doing assignments for him, I would support you. I would worry the whole time, but I would never stand in your way."

Sarah shifted, her chest pressing against his as she looked up at him. "For now, I have another job I'm more interested in. Something safer than being an intelligencer, yet even more challenging."

"What's that?" Chuck asked, his fingers brushing gently against the side of her face.

The smile on her face grew teasing, even as her eyes filled with love. "I'm very curious about whether I could be a wife."

He was sure she could feel how his heart skipped a beat. Looking down into her face, his imagination spun out a lifetime of moments like this, the two of them together and happy and so in love that it would be obvious to all. But he didn't want to rush ahead and miss out on the quieter times. He wanted to stay right here, in this moment, before they had to start thinking about what came next.

"Hmm," he said, trying to match her tone. "I'm curious about that as well. And since being a wife usually requires a husband, who do you have in mind to fill that role, Lady Sarah?"

Her smile grew bigger and brighter as she lifted her face to his. "Guess," she said, just before she kissed him again.

End, Chapter 8


	10. Epilogue

**Ready ****at ****Your ****Hand****, ****Epilogue**** (10/10)**

**Author**: dettiot

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: In the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, a Catholic plot against the queen comes to the attention of spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham. To protect Elizabeth, he develops an unusual plan: hide the passing of intelligence between two agents by a false romance. When Lady Sarah Walker and Chuck Carmichael meet, though, their pretend flirtation becomes much more.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Chuck_. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author****'****s ****Note**: This concludes Ready at Your Hand, a story that has come to mean a lot to me. In a lot of ways, writing this fic has convinced me that I can write something that isn't fanfic. And all the great reviews and comments I've received along the way has strengthened that feeling. So maybe someday in the future, you'll see something written by me in a bookstore or on your e-reader! Here's hoping. Thank you for reading.

XXX

_Greensleeves __was __all __my __joy_

_Greensleeves __was __my __delight__,_

_Greensleeves __was __my __heart __of __gold__,_

_And __who __but __my __lady __greensleeves__._

Greensleeves

XXX

"So, Sir Francis, another plot has been unmasked?"

With a bow, the spymaster replied, "Yes, Your Majesty," before taking his seat across from the Queen. At his side was a small table, supporting a bottle of fine wine and four goblets.

Queen Elizabeth, seated on a plain wooden chair like his own, arched an eyebrow. These type of private meetings, held in out-of-the-way rooms in the palace and without any of the Queen's servants, were rare. They were also one of a few chances for monarch and subject to express themselves honestly and without reservations.

Knowing this, the queen pressed Sir Francis for information without making any attempt at politeness. "And will I be kept in the dark more than I already have been? What will you tell me of the details of this plot?"

"Your Majesty is already aware of the plot's outline," Sir Francis said, pouring wine into two of the glasses and passing one to her. "Count Mendoza and some minor nobles sought to raise your kinswoman, the Queen of the Scots, to the throne of England. I have long had my eye on Count Mendoza, as you know."

The queen sipped her wine, looking directly at Sir Francis over the rim of the goblet. "You have often argued for restricting the movements of Count Mendoza. Of any ambassador sent to our realm by the King of Spain."

"I have, Your Majesty," he said. "And I hope you might agree that such individuals, as sterling as they might be in their personal qualities, cannot be trusted as any other foreigner might be."

"Diplomatically, caution is urged before we classify ambassadors on the same level as thieves and rogues."

"Most of them have more in common with those classes of peoples than with honest men, Your Majesty," Sir Francis said with a touch of scorn.

The queen chortled softly. "Indeed, Sir Francis. It is a matter that bears further scrutiny, however. Getting back to the situation at hand-Count Mendoza has taken his leave?"

"He has, Your Majesty. Lord Burghley and I rescinded his ambassadorial status this very morning. He is in Plymouth now, awaiting a favorable breeze to take him back to Spain, and I have three loyal men tracking his every move until he is within the boundaries of that country."

"Very good, Sir Francis. Count Mendoza was little better than a weasel, and it is good to have him out of our country." The Queen leaned back in her chair.

Sir Francis was tempted to share that he considered the former ambassador more of a stoat, but he held his tongue rather than insult a nobleman, even if he was a Spaniard. Instead, he drank a little wine and changed the subject. "I have two matters I would like to put to Your Majesty."

She gestured for him to continue. "First, due to my health, I wish to withdraw to the country for a few months," he said, bracing himself for the Queen to lose her temper. She was notorious for insisting that her councilors remain close at hand regardless of infirmity or injury. As she noted, she could never withdraw from being Queen, a position she sometimes used in holding her councilors to a similar standard.

Fortunately, the Queen was feeling magnanimous today. "Dear Sir Francis, of course," she said, her voice round and rich. "You are like my Eyes, and we cannot have you suffer."

"Thank you, Your Majesty. I am hopeful that with rest I shall be able to return a few weeks after Michaelmas." As he spoke, Sir Francis rubbed his stomach. His discomfort was tolerable today, but it had only been the force of his will that kept an attack from immobilizing him as his operatives had unmasked Count Mendoza.

The Queen refilled his glass. "You had a second matter to discuss, Sir Francis?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. I informed you that I had utilized one of your maids of honour as part of my plan to uncover Count Mendoza's plot, along with a gentleman who was attached to a noble's household." Sir Francis paused. "I wish to reveal their identities to you, so that they might be rewarded."

"Rewarded?" The Queen raised an eyebrow. "That all depends, Sir Francis. But please, make known who your helpers were." The Queen's voice was dry to the point of aridity. She was not pleased to find Sir Francis using members of her household in such a fashion-and she had made her feelings known very strongly last week, when he had explained how he knew that Count Mendoza should be expelled.

"I enlisted Lady Sarah Walker and Mr. Charles Carmichael. You might remember, Your Majesty, how you had them dance for you at the recent court banquet-"

"Of course I remember," snapped the Queen. "God's death, Sir Francis, I am still firmly in possession of all my wits, in spite of my fiftieth birthday approaching."

"Yes, Your Majesty, of course," Sir Francis said, weathering the storm. "Lady Sarah and Mr. Carmichael formed a feigned relationship, in order for the Earl of Lincoln to not realize he had a spy in his household."

"Feigned, you say?" The Queen looked skeptical. "Sir Francis, we do not believe you. We saw every sign of love between the Lady Sarah and her young man."

"They both fulfilled their roles most admirably, Your Majesty, but it was counterfeit." He rose from his chair. "They are waiting in the outer chamber, hoping for an audience with you-perhaps they could explain how they so ably acted like lovers."

"Bring them in," the Queen commanded. "If nothing else, they should be recognized for fooling the Queen of England."

XXX

Chuck gazed at Sarah as they waited to see if the Queen would speak to them. She was standing in front of the window, gazing out at the gardens. "You look very beautiful today, Sarah."

She turned and smiled at him, the skirts of her dress swishing against the rushes on the floor. Her dress was a lovely green silk, one that he didn't recognize. "Is that a new dress?" he asked, walking over to her.

"New for me," Sarah said, doing a small twirl. "Catherine swapped it to me, for a red dress of mine. Since someone doesn't like me in red." She gave him a small, teasing smile.

"I only said that I preferred you in colors other than red," he said, taking her hands. "It doesn't matter, though, since you're beautiful in any color."

In his heart of hearts, Chuck had another reason for not liking Sarah in red. He had been confused when he had opened his eyes in John Casey's lodgings and seen Sarah in a revealing red frock, but when she had explained why she was wearing that dress . . . Chuck had felt the out-of-character urge to find Mendoza and make him pay. It would be a while until he could see Sarah in a red dress and not think of that. Hopefully, Sarah did not hold his weakness against him.

"Do you think the Queen will want to see us?" he asked Sarah, gazing at her.

She gave an elegant shrug. "Perhaps. It depends on what Sir Francis tells her. And how sympathetic she is towards your bruises."

After a week, Chuck's injuries were much recovered. True, his ribs were still tender, and now he felt an ache in one knee before it rained. But the bruises on his face had faded to pale yellowish-green splotches, and his cuts were nearly healed. He was confident that in another few days, he could begin looking for a new position.

It was something he was worried about, truthfully. He had no reference from Mr. Milbarge or the Earl of Lincoln, so he was back to where he had begun, back to being the friendless, penniless nobody he had been when he first arrived in London. And the longer it took him to find a position, the longer it would take until he had enough money for marriage.

Looking at Sarah, Chuck felt his heart swell with hope in spite of his bleak prospects. She had become the center of his world. Although he had not officially asked her to marry him, it almost didn't matter. They had already made a commitment to each other. In the last week, she had spent as much time as she could with him, visiting him in his lodgings at Cheapside. With Morgan as a chaperone their relationship remained somewhat chaste, but Chuck found he didn't mind. At least, not much.

But they were still getting to know each other. He sensed that Sarah would need time to be truly ready to become his wife. And there was still much he needed to learn about himself, too. So not rushing into marriage seemed wise to him, if that was how their situation played itself out.

"Are you nervous?"

Sarah's voice drew him out of his thoughts and he looked at her in confusion. "Your hands are a bit sweaty," she said gently.

"Oh!" He yanked his hands away and rubbed them against his hose. "Um, would you believe it's because it's warm in here and this doublet is heavy?" He gestured towards his silvery-blue doublet, even though it was clearly obvious it was made from lightweight fabric.

"You've already met the Queen once, Chuck. And her bark is much worse than her bite." Sarah rubbed his arm carefully, still wary of his injuries.

"That was different. I hardly said anything except what you told me to say, in order to get on the Queen's good side," Chuck protested. "Besides, this time, I'm not playing a part. I'm just me."

She looked up at him, then stepped in close to him, resting her hands on his hips. "The Queen likes people to be honest. Don't try and think up something incredibly charming to say because she'll see right through you. Be honest, be yourself, and you'll be fine." She paused, then gave him a small smile. "You're usually charming without realizing it, you know."

"I am?" he asked doubtfully, even as he cupped her elbows in his hands and drew her a bit closer.

"Yes, you are." Sarah pecked his lips before pulling away. His expression must have looked grumpy, because she laughed softly. "I'm not about to be caught kissing you by Sir Francis or the Queen."

Chuck reached out and took her hand, pulling it to rest in the crook of his arm. "You're still sure about your decision? To cut ties with Sir Francis?" Feeling the flutter of nervous energy, he started walking around the room with her.

"I am sure," she said, looking up at him and keeping pace with him. "I swear to you, Chuck, I didn't make this decision lightly, even if I made it rather quickly." She brought her other hand to rest on his arm as well. "I've made my peace with not being a spy."

He smiled sheepishly at her. "I know I keep asking . . . I think it's more for my own sake than anything else. If I keep hearing the words, they will sink in eventually."

"Yes, well, if you keep asking, I might have to see whether those fencing lessons I received actually work," Sarah said sweetly.

Swallowing, Chuck nodded. "Yes, right. Understood. You're fine and I don't need to worry about this."

"You don't need to worry about anything," she said, leaning against his side. "Or else I'll write to Eleanor and ask her what sort of disgusting tinctures can be used to revive vigor and spirit."

Chuck stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, I would," Sarah said, a wide smile spreading across her face.

"Then-then I'll ask Lady Catherine for embarrassing stories about you," he said, grasping for straws.

Sarah quirked an eyebrow. "Do you really think my friend would help you like that?"

"It's Catherine," he countered, watching as Sarah's forehead wrinkled and actual concern bloomed in her eyes.

"You make a good point," she admitted as Chuck laughed. "I think we should draw a truce. No going to sisters or friends for blackmail material."

"Deal," Chuck said, leaning down to steal a quick kiss to seal their bargain.

Of course, it was just at that moment the doors to the inner chamber opened and Sir Francis stepped out. He cleared his throat, a small grin touching his lips, but his voice was dispassionate as he said, "Lady Sarah, Mr. Carmichael? The Queen wishes to speak with you."

Chuck straightened up, trying to school his expression. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." He glanced at Sarah as they followed Sir Francis into the room. He was sure that through her hand on his arm Sarah could feel the tension in his body. She looked nervous now, too. He wished there had been a chance for him to give her a pep talk, like the one she had given him. But all he could do was cover her hand on his arm with his free hand as they walked into the next room.

XXX

Taking a deep breath, Sarah prepared herself for this conversation. The Queen did not like hearing that her maids of honour had interests outside of Her Majesty. Not only had Sarah fallen in love, she had worked with Sir Francis, going behind the Queen's back to guard her safety.

Chuck might not be the only one without a position by the end of the day.

Looking up at him, she drew courage from him. She knew he was worried about what might happen during this interview, yet he held his head high and didn't falter as they approached the Queen.

As Chuck bowed low, Sarah sank into a deep curtsy. "Your Majesty," they both said in unison.

"Rise and be seated," the Queen said after a long moment. Sarah had no sense of how the Queen felt from her voice, and her expression remained blank as Sarah and Chuck took their seats.

"We understand from Sir Francis that you are both better actors than fully half of the Queen Elizabeth's Men," the Queen said, referring to the troupe of actors that were under her sponsorship. She gestured towards Sir Francis, who began filling some goblets with wine. "How else to explain how you pretended to be in love so perfectly?"

"To be perfectly honest, Your Majesty, I was not pretending," Chuck said. "I fell in love with Lady Sarah within moments of our first meeting." He took the glass from Sir Francis and held it in a tight grip.

"Hmm, yes," the Queen said, looking at Chuck over the rim of her own goblet. Then she looked at Sarah. "And you, Lady Sarah?"

"In looking back, it happened just that quickly for myself, Your Majesty," Sarah said, unable to stop herself from glancing over at Chuck. "However, I spent more time fighting my emotions."

"And why is that, Lady Sarah?" The Queen looked curious, but also calculating. Like her mind was turning over Sarah's words, preparing to make some kind of statement.

Sarah took a moment to organize her thoughts, covering her delay by taking a small sip of wine. "I thought my life would go in one direction, but meeting Mr. Carmichael presented a different path. And it was difficult to step off the path I had been on and take a new one."

"So you see love as a journey, then?"

"I . . . I suppose so . . ." Sarah said, feeling embarrassed. It was one thing to discuss her feelings for Chuck with the man in question, but with Sir Francis listening and the Queen's eyes pinning her down, she felt flustered and tongue-tied.

Suddenly, Chuck's hand reached across the space between their chairs and took Sarah's hand. "I would certainly say that love is a journey, Your Majesty," he said, his voice low. "Not unlike life. We are all walking a path towards some unknown destination. Some alone, some with those that we love. I am lucky enough to have found the person I hope to walk with for the years to come."

She must look like a starry-eyed girl at the moment, Sarah thought in the back of her mind. But she couldn't help gazing at Chuck, feeling her heart bloom with love for him.

"Very prettily put, Mr. Carmichael," the Queen said, setting aside her goblet of wine. "Sir Francis has spoken highly of both of you. He says our throne remains secure due to your efforts, and for that, we are grateful."

"Your Majesty's safety was all we desired," Sarah said, feeling her cheeks flush at the unexpected compliment.

The Queen nodded, accepting Sarah's words simply as what was due to her as the monarch. "And there was mention of a reward. Mr. Carmichael, I understand you are looking for a new position."

Chuck leaned forward slightly in his chair, his hand tightening around Sarah's. "Um, yes, Your Majesty. That is correct."

"Lord Burghley has informed me that we are of need of a new high sheriff of Lancashire. Of course, the position is unpaid, so it typically goes to a landowner in the county. Therefore, we have a small estate that we wish to deed upon you both."

Sarah blinked, then nearly gasped as Chuck crushed her hand. "E-ex-excuse me, Your Majesty, but you-you're giving us an estate?" he stuttered as Sarah was unable to speak from her shock.

The Queen rose, and Sir Francis stood up immediately. It took both Chuck and Sarah a moment longer to scramble up. "For as long as either of you shall live, the estate shall be yours, to enjoy all its benefits and profits." She narrowed her eyes at them. "We expect you to build up the estate and repay our faith in you."

"Yes-yes, Your Majesty," Sarah said, her surprise making her stumble over her words. Lancashire was part of the Queen's personal holdings. If she gifted them one of her estates, it impacted the funds she used to run her household. It was a tremendous mark of respect and regard to be granted such a reward.

Chuck's voice shook with sincerity and gratitude. "Thank you, Your Majesty. Thank you so much."

"It will be enough for a young couple, just starting out in life," the Queen said. "And as you improve the estate, it will be enough to support your children, provide them an education and status for their futures."

Both of their faces must be red as roses, Sarah thought. She glanced at Chuck and found that while his cheeks were flushed, he still looked dazed.

"Lord Burghley will make the arrangements with you both," the Queen said before sweeping out of the room. Sir Francis nodded to them and followed the Queen.

Sarah turned to look at Chuck, a wide smile on her face. "Can you believe that?" she asked, throwing her arms around his neck.

He hugged her back, then pulled away. "No. No, I can't believe it!" Chuck's eyes were wide and he ran his hands through his hair. "Me-us-owning an estate? Being landowners? That's crazy! I don't know anything about that-do you? Will we make enough from the estate to live on? What if the animals die? What if the crops are flattened by bad weather? What if the villagers don't like us? What if-"

"Chuck!"

"Huh?" he said, shaking his head and stopping his stream of babble.

She stroked his shoulders. "I know it's overwhelming, but this is good news. Now we could start talking about getting married-" Sarah paused as an idea crossed her mind. Maybe he wasn't so scared about having an estate, but by having an estate with her, by having any barriers to being married to her removed . . . "It is good news, isn't it?" she asked softly, looking at him as she nibbled softly on her lower lip.

It took him a moment, but the fog lifted from his eyes and he focused on her. He gave her a small smile and lightly stroked her cheek. "Yes. Yes, it's good news."

"I thought it was good news," she said in agreement, feeling some of the fear fade away.

"It's the best news," he said, cupping her face in his hands before kissing her softly.

Closing her eyes, Sarah kissed him back, holding him tightly. Now Chuck could stop worrying. Now they had a future together. It was all happening a bit faster than she had expected-she had thought she would have a few months, maybe longer, to prepare for being a wife. But each night, it had become harder and harder to leave Chuck. Now they had an opportunity, one that would let them stay together and make something for themselves.

Sarah sighed softly against his lips as the kiss ended. "No more worrying?" she asked, looking up at him.

"None for the moment," he said, grinning at her. "It's the power of kissing you."

Even as her cheeks went pink, Sarah smiled at him. He truly was charming and sweet. And soon, he would be hers.

Together, they walked out of the chamber, hand-in-hand. Sir Francis was waiting for them.

"Sir Francis?" she asked, looking at him.

"Congratulations to both of you," he said, the corners of his mouth quirking into a smile. "I take it the Queen's gift was unexpected?"

"Very," Chuck said with another grin.

"Of course, you realize that as landowners, and with Mr. Carmichael as the high sheriff, you'll need to stay out of trouble. No excitement or adventure, like working in my network," Sir Francis said, his voice low.

Sarah looked up at Chuck. He looked back, his eyebrow quirking a little. And she realized that although he didn't want to be a spy, it didn't mean they couldn't find their own adventures. Ones that they could share together.

"I suppose you're right, Sir Francis," she said, keeping her eyes locked on Chuck. "It's a nice, quiet life for both of us."

Chuck nodded. "Yes, exactly. Running an estate, getting the crops in. Normal things."

"No adventures at all," Sarah said, giving Chuck a small smile.

And when he squeezed her hand, she knew that they were in complete agreement.

End.


End file.
